


Seeing Reds

by ladyamesindy



Series: Giorraíonn beirt bóthar - Two People Shorten A Road [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Earthborn background, Gangs, Gen, Ireland, OCs galore, Some use of Irish language, Varying POVs, discussion of suicide, emotional/psychological manipulation, pub setting, some violence (which may or may not require adjusting warnings later), vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyamesindy/pseuds/ladyamesindy
Summary: A small child with no memory of before arrives on the doorstep to Old Neddy's pub in Shannon, Ireland, and his life is forever changed.My take on the Earthborn background for Commander Caleb Shepard.
Series: Giorraíonn beirt bóthar - Two People Shorten A Road [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784806
Comments: 50
Kudos: 7





	1. Shannon

**Author's Note:**

> This exploration began as a side effect to another piece I started working on at the encouragement of both swaps55 and starkeeper here on AO3. Thank you both for encouraging me down this path! I have no doubt my life will be forever changed as a result!

__

_April 11, 2160_

They say that the past follows you throughout your life, haunts you until the day you die. However, he doesn’t remember much of anything before THE DAY.

The day he scampers and scrambles down the street, tangled black hair hanging past the threadbare collar of his matching shirt, feet bare as the day he was born covered in dirt and filth and muck. Drenched through and through, the water marks his route with damp squiggly trails. Urgency drives him forward; desperation is his fuel. 

Breathing hurts, an invasive ache that spreads slowly across his chest, makes him see spots before his eyes. He trips and lands face-down as he pants heavily. His hands tear across old, rough pavement; a new hole on the right knee of his trousers now matches the left. Pain leaves him numb; a blessing, really. And around him, no one stops to wonder at the child lying there or assist him to his feet. 

Not that he expects it.

He lifts his head just enough to see the two garda approaching. With every ounce of effort he can muster, he lurches to his left to avoid them as they march by, side-by-side. But the effort costs him; he rolls out of control, tumbling awkwardly and only comes to a stop when his back hits flush against something solid. Hard. It knocks any remaining breath he has out of him for a moment and leaves another dull ache.

The soft tingling jingle of a bell echoes somewhere nearby; a stark contrast to the crowded, busy city streets. It sounds oddly out of place. 

“Here, now, what’s all this?”

Alarm shoots through him and his head shoots up… and up … and _up_. He knows enough to recognize ‘adult,’ and that means trouble. But when his eyes reach the top, even as he flails to find his footing, they meet something unexpected. A face, at first set back in shadows that are haloed by the sun. He rubs absently at his aching back, only capable of blinking in response.

“You alright there, lad?” 

The face moves lower, comes a bit more into focus. Panic snakes through him. _Run! Flee!_ He flails further, finally managing an awkward crab-walk backwards … only to hit the solid wall he’d rammed into in the first place. He is trapped and he knows it. 

A hand, strong and powerful, wraps around his wrist and tugs gently. “Come on, now, let’s get you on your feet.” 

The motion is quick and so unexpected that as he lands, he has to hop once to catch his balance. But he is upright and that brings him nearly face to face with … He blinks. The face is kind. _Smiling._ Though wariness remains, the panic bleeds out. After a moment, as he draws in a deep, full breath, he manages a hesitant smile in return.

His good Samaritan eyes him from head to toe with a knowing look and lips pressed into a thin line. He ducks out of instinct when the old man reaches a hand out toward him. The hand falls away immediately. “Are you hungry, lad?” Samaritan asks. “You look as if you have missed a few meals.”

_Hungry_. He can’t stop himself from bobbing his head up and down; it’s a small movement, but vigorous. _Food_. The word sounds foreign to him. He can’t recall the last time he had something to eat, but his belly can, and it responds with a loud, rumbling growl. 

Samaritan chuckles as he pushes himself upright, sparing a moment to take a quick look up and down the street. No one seems to notice them or care; people continue to walk by as if they are two friends having a normal, everyday conversation. 

“Come along with me, then,” Samaritan says pleasantly enough. He rests a hand at his back in a semi-protective manner that also guides him toward the doorway that stands open. “I was just having lunch. I suppose I can scrape up some for you as well.”

~

Once inside, there is little light and he almost trips over his feet on the three descending steps. Samaritan’s hand grasps his shoulder firmly at the last second, saving him, before he shouts, “Nan!” His voice echoes oddly in the space. “Nan, where are you?”

The squeak of hinges on the far side of the room precede a soft click. A moment later, bright light fills the space; it’s too bright, and he throws his arm over his eyes to protect them. 

“You know where I am, old man!” a woman shouts back, but the voice is filled with fondness not irritation. 

“We have company,” Samaritan replies. 

Samaritan’s hand urges him forward into the room. He takes one step. Then another. He lowers his arm just in time to avoid the corner of a table. There is a long, tall counter to his left that seems to go forever, but as his eyes finally reach the end, he sees an older woman standing there. Where Samaritan’s are green, her eyes are a soft brown, and like his, kind. Both have hair that is more silver than any other color; hers is twisted up on top of her head. 

“Go on, lad,” Samaritan says with a hint of a smile in his voice. “Nan won’t bite you!”

Nan chuckles and moves around the counter. She holds a plate in one hand and a towel in the other. Her eyes widen in surprise once she sees him. “Oh, now, you are a sight, aren’t you? What happened to you?” She sets the plate on the counter but brings the towel over and hands it to him. Startled, he isn’t sure what to do with it at first, so she kneels down in front of him and carefully wipes his face. “You look as if you just swam the Shannon, lad!”

_The Shannon_. He knows the name. The River. He knows it means home. He nods. “Aye,” he whispers.

Samaritan walks up behind him at hearing that. “What’s that, lad?”

He tilts his head, shakes his hair back just enough for two bright blue eyes to peek out. “I was in the river,” he says in a voice that grows stronger with each word, “but I walked out.”

Nan and Samaritan share a quick look before Nan says, “Ned, help him clean up, please. Give him some of Johnny’s old clothes to wear.” She looks down at him and she smiles, giving him a nod of encouragement. “If you’re to eat at my table, lad, you’d best clean up.”

He swallows past an unexpected lump in his throat, but he doesn’t protest. Not if it means food and dry clothes for once. 

An affectionate rumble echoes in Ned’s voice as he says, “Come along, lad. If my Nan says you need to clean up to sit at her table, you need to clean up!” He leads him up a stairway in the back of the building. “What’s your name?”

Halfway up the stairs, he tilts his head at Ned and he blinks. It’s there, almost within reach … “Caleb,” he says as they finally top the steps. 

~

A freshly washed Caleb sits at the table, his dark hair combed away from his face as he busily shoves food into his mouth. He only stops twice, both times to take a long drink of the cold milk Nan sets far enough from the edge he won’t accidentally spill it. She and Ned stand across the room, talking. They think he doesn’t hear them, but he can; he’s just too busy eating to pay it any mind.

Several minutes pass before Ned shuffles over and sits across from him. Nan joins him a minute later. She sips at a cup of tea as she nods at Ned. “So, Caleb,” Ned says as he clears his throat, “where are you from?”

Caleb pauses. He has manners enough to finish chewing his food and swallow it down before responding. “Shannon.” 

Ned and Nan exchange a look. “Do you know which district?” Nan asks gently.

Caleb shakes his head, tucking back into the hot stew she gave him but minutes to go. It’s warm and tasty, and it’s the first hot meal he can remember.

Nan looks at Ned and murmurs, “Maybe _Athair_ will know him.”

_Athair._ The word gives Caleb a moment of pause, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes. _Athair?_ The word tickles in his head. 

Ned notices first. “Do you know _Athair_ , Caleb?”

Caleb sets his spoon down in the bowl with purpose and thinks hard. _Athair … Athair … Father …_ It is a new word for him, at least he thinks it is, but a hazy image of a face begins to take shape. “ _Athair_ … Connor?”

Nan gasps softly, then sets her tea aside. Ned shares a quick look with her and nods at the door at which point, Nan rises and leaves the room without a word. “Yes,” he tells Caleb. “ _Athair_ Connor’s church is nearby. Have you met him?” Somewhere, a door opens and bells chime softly.

Caleb scoops up another mouthful of stew. “I … I think so?”

Ned’s eyes stay on him while he eats, but Caleb doesn’t care. He is scraping the last of the broth and vegetables onto his bread when Ned asks, “How old are you, son?”

He sets the bowl on the table and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. 

Ned rises and collects the bowl, tilting it at Caleb in silent question. Caleb’s belly grumbles a little and he blushes. Ned simply pats his shoulder. “Never fear, lad, there’s plenty more where that came from.” He returns a minute or two later and sets a newly filled bowl along with another slice of bread before Caleb. Eyes wide at the thought he can have more, Caleb manages a smile of thanks.

Time passes companionably, and by the time he finishes the second bowl, Caleb’s eyes droop slightly. Ned clears the table and sits back down. Caleb decides the man is friendly enough; his voice is deep, rich and warm, like a blanket. Before he realizes it, he tucks his arms in front of him and rests his head on top.

He wakes with a start as a hand settles on his shoulder. Eyes wide in momentary fear of the unknown, he glances up to find someone other than Ned or Nan standing there. Older, but not nearly as old as Ned or Nan, there kindness in his eyes … and familiarity. Rubbing his eyes, Caleb sits up and whispers roughly, “ _Athair_?”

The man takes a knee which brings him to Caleb’s eye level. “Aye, son,” he murmurs. “Nan came to fetch me.” 

Caleb looks around the room. Ned and Nan stand a short distance away to give them privacy. He isn’t certain why; he has no secrets, except the ones that are hidden from him. “They want to know who I am,” he tells the priest simply. “How old I am.” 

“I know.” Father Connor waves the elderly couple back to the table and all four of them sit. When he speaks, he includes them all but his words are directed specifically at Ned. “Caleb wandered into St. Senan’s two days ago,” he explains. “He has no memory of where he came from, who his family might be, or even his age. All he recalls is his name and that he is from Shannon. I guess his age around six or seven. I’ve made a few inquiries around the parish to see if anyone knows him, but no one has any word of a missing child that matches his description.”

“Two days ago, you said?” Nan shares a quick look with Ned who nods. “Where has he been since?”

Father Connor glances down at him and Caleb shrugs. “Shannon,” the boy replies.

“But _where_ in Shannon, lad?” Ned asks. “You were a sight when you arrived, that’s for sure.”

Nan explains to the priest, “He was drenched through and covered in filth.” She excuses herself and leaves the room, returning some minutes later with a bundle comprised of his old clothes. 

“Caleb,” _Athair_ says in quiet concern after taking a moment to inspect them, “where did you go after you left St. Senan’s the other day?”

“Down the hill,” Caleb replies.

“How far down the hill?”

He shrugs. 

“Did you go as far as the river?”

He nods this time. “I slept in a tree,” he recalls. “In the morning, I followed the edge, looking for food.” A small frown creases his brow. “I … someone threw me in?”

The room stills but for a soft gasp from Nan, her face a mask of horror. “Who, lad?” Ned asks. He hides it better, but his voice gives him away as it trembles. “Who threw you in?”

Caleb shakes his head. “I was climbing up to the street. It was busy, but there was room. I climbed over the wall but someone picked me up and threw me back.” He grimaces. “Like a fish that’s too small.”

_Athair_ Connor stands while keeping a calm hand at Caleb’s shoulder. “Son, I will ask that you stay here with Ned and Nan for a time,” he murmurs. The couple instantly nod their agreement. “It will be safe, far safer than the streets.” Glancing over at Ned, he adds, “I should go.”

Ned rises to follow the priest to the door, but Nan remains seated across from Caleb. “Will you stay with us?” she asks softly.

“You want me to?” Even at his age, he understands that it is one thing for _Athair_ to ask it, but another for Ned and Nan to agree.

Nan nods. “We have a room,” she explains, a look of sadness filling her eyes. “Years ago, our son, Johnny, lived here. But he’s gone now, and you can stay for as long as you like.”

Caleb looks down at the clothes he wears and recalls the name mentioned earlier. “I … I don’t remember –.”

Nan takes his small hand in her larger one and squeezes. “If you have no memories of before,” she says, “then maybe you should make new ones to fill the space?”

A spark of something in the back of his mind offers warning, but he cannot figure out why, then the door to the kitchen creaks, and he looks over to see Ned returning and the spark is gone. “Do you want me to stay, too?” he asks the older man.

Ned smiles. “I do, lad,” he replies, “but only if you want to.” Sitting, he adds, “If you do, we will want you to attend _Athair’s_ school. Maybe help us out around here, some.”

Caleb considers the terms and nods. “I can do that,” he agrees.

Nan pushes herself to her feet and extends her hand. “Come along then, Caleb, and I will show you around. Best to do it now before the place fills up.”

As they walk into the main chamber, Caleb looks around again. “What is this place?”

Ned laughs heartily. “Welcome to _Old Neddy’s_ , lad!” he says. “We’re just a simple family pub where people come to relax and have a drink of an evening. Occasionally, there is food and music, too.” He winks over at Nan who giggles. 

_Old Neddy’s._ As he climbs the stairs for a second time, Caleb decides it’s a good place to start making new memories ...


	2. Ceannaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ceannaire = Leader

_2160_

Anger burns as hot as her fiery red-gold hair with a temper that matches. It’s mostly dark inside _Old Neddy’s_ , with just enough light from a single bulb lamp that dangles above the small table. It is here that Glennon sits, hunched forward in her chair with her arms lying atop her legs. She feels a coward as she relies on the red-gold curtain to hide the true depth of pain threatening to escape her emerald gaze. Her hands, laced tightly together, betray her mood as they shake. Just a hint of movement, but it travels up her arms until they move in subtle quakes that roll across her shoulders. Her eyes focus on the tips of her boots, just barely discernible among the shadows that line the floor where the light doesn’t hit. Defeat is an ugly word; and it stings all the more after tonight. 

Without changing her position, one hand shoots out and takes the short glass Ned left on the table next to her just moments before. She says nothing, simply holds it firmly. This is something solid, _real_. An anchor, of sorts, that helps ground. There will be a time and place to give free reign to her emotions; the middle of _Old Neddy’s_ at two in the morning is not it. 

Not here. Not yet. She won’t allow it.

A lone tear trickles from the corner of her left eye against her will and glints in the light. The drop marks its path down the crease of her nose and across her upper lip as if blatantly ignoring the decision she has made. Reaching the edge, it hangs in a momentary fight against gravity, before falling free. It disappears, the only sign of its previous existence a dark blue mark mixed among tears and stains of the worn denim she wears. With an aggravated sniff, she uses the cuff of her sleeve to wipe away any memory of the traitorous trail on her face. 

If ever a woman personifies her native land’s fire and passion, be it good or bad, it is Glennon. And there are times that she hates herself for it. This is one such moment.

“There was naught I could do.” Her voice cracks on the words; admitting them is as painful as the loss itself, perhaps more. Heavy booted steps shuffle to her side and a chair creaks as it is positioned across from her. It is the strong, firm, _gentle_ hand that gently squeezes her shoulder that nearly does her in. _Nearly_. The breath she draws in is ragged and uneven. 

“You did what you could, Glennon,” Ned reassures her quietly. He sits, holding his own short glass, the light amber liquid sloshing gently back and forth with the movement. 

Glennon peeks through the curtain masking her face, notes the sad smile at his lips. Immediately, she pulls her lower lip between her teeth and bites down hard. If she’s lost a friend, he has lost a son, by association if not by blood, and the _Reds_ their leader. 

“Tommy was a stubborn one,” Ned continues. He doesn’t add, _Just like you_. Both know it. Both accept it. It’s the nature of the _Reds_ these days, necessary if they are to survive in the world. “Determined. Once he got an idea into his mind to do something, there was no changing it.” Ned sighs heavily and runs a free hand through the silvery strands atop his head. 

Glennon follows the motion with her eyes, notes that there is far less brown than when she first met him five years before. Each day brings with it more silver, and more heartache. 

She sits up and pushes the mass of curls over one shoulder. With the move, the piercing intensity of her gaze is now focused directly on him. “ _Athair_ tells us suicide is a sin.”

Ned nods his agreement. “Aye, if indeed it was.” He pauses, spares her a sad smile. “You know Tommy wouldn’t see it that way.”

Her lips purse into a tight line. She’d been there, witnessed it with her own eyes; he had not. “Ned, ever since Annie –.”

He cuts her off with a careful wave of his hand that holds the glass; just strong enough to silence her without a drop sloshing over the edge. “Aye, ever since then,” he agrees easily. “But from what you told me about tonight, his decision saved you and Ruairí. That’s not suicide, and you’ll not be convincing me otherwise.” His eyes, hard brittle beads of near black, meet hers and do not shift away. Eventually, they soften a fraction. “How is he doing?”

Glennon sighs and lifts the glass to inhale deeply, her nostrils flaring as they catch the scent from the liquid. “It was close,” she grudgingly admits. “He’ll be down a while, but he’ll live.”

Ned lifts his glass to clink lightly against hers. “To Tommy.”

Glennon raises her glass above her shoulder, slightly tipping it in silent salute. “ _May you be half an hour in heaven before the Devil knows your dead_ ,” she murmurs, then tosses the whiskey back in one gulp. It steals her breath for just a moment, but along with it she sends her goodbyes. It goes against her very nature to cut her mourning short like this, but it’s a necessity; the cause must continue. 

Ned rises quietly, collects the glasses and walks them over to the sink. He is on the far side of the room, well out of arms reach, when he observes, “I guess with Tommy gone, that makes you _Ceannaire_?”

Halfway to her feet, the full implication of Tommy’s true motive hits her. “Bastard!” she hisses, her fist pounding onto the table and sending a small vase of flowers clattering. The soft burble of Ned’s amusement does little to calm her. Ever since Tommy talked her into becoming _Dara_ two years before it’s been common knowledge within the _Reds_ she has no interest in leading. If anything, she’s fought hard against it, suggesting someone else be made his second for this very inevitability. Tommy always refused.

Nearby, a door creaks and a small head peers through the opening. Glennon turns as eyes spitting flames of anger at Tommy dart in that direction. Ned quickly intervenes. “Now, Caleb, what’s brought you down here at this late hour? You should be abed!”

Glennon blinks. _Caleb?_ For the past few weeks, she’s heard the old man ramble on about the boy he and Nan took in, but she hasn’t seen or met him. Until now. “That’s him, then?” she asks as Ned’s words filter through and clear out the red haze.

“Aye.”

She breathes deeply and folds her arms across her chest as she leans against the edge of the table. Slowly, she takes his measure. After a moment, she crooks two fingers at the child, curling them toward herself in a silent request. “Let him through, Neddy.”

Ned moves without question; he recognizes an order when he hears one, even if he isn’t one of their number. In silence, Glennon curses him before turning her full attention to the boy. She towers over him at full height, but she can see in the way that he holds himself it won’t be long before their positions are reversed. “I hear you survived the mighty Shannon,” she says by way of introduction.

His head tilts and he meets her gaze with wide, solemn eyes and nods.

“D’you know who pushed you in?” She’s heard the story, of course; both Ned and Nan told her in the days following Caleb’s arrival. She is startled at how expressive his bright blue eyes are. _You’ve lived a lifetime in your young life already, haven’t you, boy?_

He shakes his head, still quiet and somber, but something behind his eyes waits; a flame that just needs kindling to catch hold. 

Glennon takes a knee and brings them almost eye to eye before resting her hand on his shoulder. It is not an action of restraint, but of commiseration. Of unity. “D’you know who I am?” she asks quietly. In the background, Ned start to fuss, but she waves him off with a shake of his head.

“No,” Caleb replies, speaking aloud for the first time, “but I think I’d like to.”

She chuckles softly, a smile finally reaching dry, cracked lips. “Have you heard of the _10 th Street Reds_, Caleb?” He shakes his head and waits patiently, and she moves her hand just beneath his chin, tilting it a fraction more so they’re eyes fully meet. “Some of us,” she explains in a soothing lilt, “have grievances with others. Doesn’t matter who; someone specific, a group of people, the world in general. Someone’s done us wrong somehow or another and that needs dealing with. D’you know what I mean?”

Big blue eyes widen further and he nods again, a bit more vigorously this time.

She lifts her hand from his shoulder to ruffle his hair. “That’s a good lad.” Though she’s looking directly at him, she also looks beyond him, at Ned. She hears his soft sigh of resignation, witnesses the nod of understanding. Fleetingly, Glennon wonders if Nan will hate her for this. _Your very first act as Ceannaire and you recruit my boy? My Caleb? After what happened to Johnny all those years ago? How could you?_

The way Glennon sees it, her request and Nan’s fears won’t matter much in the end. It will happen or it won’t; the choice will be Caleb’s to make. “So. I am _Ceannaire_ ,” she explains, giving him her undivided attention. “D’you know that word?” His head moves back and forth, a cautious movement to be sure. “It means I am their leader. If you’ve a problem that requires our attention, you bring it to me. You understand that much, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She pushes to her feet and gives him a firm nod. “That also means when you are old enough, if you wish to do your own hunting, resolve your own grievances, or help us do ours, you come to me first.” Their gazes remain steady upon the other. “Understand?”

Caleb draws in a deep breath, but he nods once. “I do.” His head tilts and she can see he is considering something. “What do I call you until then?”

A laugh breaks free of her lips where minutes before tears threatened. “Glennon.” She extends her hand to his and he takes it. For someone so small, he has a firm grip. That pleases her. She half turns and grabs her jacket and the pack lying beneath it from the chair behind hers. “In the meantime,” she adds as she pulls the jacket on and slings the pack over her shoulder, “you keep attending school with _Athair_ Connor.”

“Aye.”

With one last ruffle of his hair, Glennon crosses the room. She claps Ned’s shoulder as he’d done earlier and looks him in the eye. “The choice will be his,” she assures him, watches the worry ease just a fraction. “Our numbers may be limited, but I will not force the life upon him.”

“Nan won’t like it,” Ned argues, but it’s only an attempt at protest. They both know where his heart lies. 

“I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” she replies. Then in a louder voice, she adds, “Thanks for the drink. Tommy would’ve liked it, I think.”

A snort of amusement sneaks out from old Ned’s lips. “Y’know he hated the stuff!”

With one last grin, she walks out the door. _Tommy’s gone, old man, and I’m left in charge as you were so quick to point out._ Soft chimes of bells echo around her as she glances up and down the street outside. _A few changes, maybe, but not many. We are the_ Reds _. We know what needs to be done…_


	3. Dara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dara = Second (as in second in command)

_2164_

It’s early when the bells ring and the door opens, but Ruairí isn’t even across the threshold into _Old Neddy’s_ before he spies several familiar faces among the patrons already gathered. Except, of course, for the one he’s there to meet. He’s early; he knows that, even planned it, so he walks up to the bar and greets Ned with a nod. “A pint of the usual,” he declares, tossing over his credit chit. “Seen Colin yet this evening?”

Typical of most barkeeps, Ned fills the glass from the tap, stopping just short of overflow, and slides it down the bar with practiced ease. “Not yet, but I don’t imagine it’ll be long.”

Ruairí takes a long sip from the glass, savoring the stout as it flows down his throat. It leaves behind a pale, bubbly moustache across his upper lip which he removes with his hand as he leans with his back to the bar and looks around the room. He is about to take another sip when the glass thunks heavily onto the counter in stunned surprise. “Neddy,” he chokes, “is that … is that _Caleb_ sitting at your Nan’s piano?”

The notes that drift softly through the room are to one of the many old Irish standards Nan likes to play when she’s of a mind to. Around the room, several of the patrons hum or sing along, while others tap their feet on the floor. It’s not as lively this early in the evening as it might be given a few more hours, but it’s a start. Ned grins proudly. “Aye. Learned by watching her play, or so he says.” The older man leans across the bar. There is a mixture of pride and concern in his voice as he adds, “He’s a smart one, he is, Ruairí. Glennon’s got her eye on him.”

Ruairí knows this, of course. As her second-in-command, they are of one mind on most things. Just as he knows Ned has mixed feelings about the situation. And that Nan still hasn’t spoken to Glennon and it’s going on … four years now. “Glennon’s a good judge of people,” he replies, and hopes it’s enough to reassure the man. He spares him a quick glance. “Johnny was a good lad, Ned,” he says quietly. _But he had poor judgement,_ he doesn’t put to voice. Ned’s head dips, the sorrow difficult to miss. With a hint of wonder in his voice because he’s seen it himself, Ruairí adds, “And Caleb is better.”

Ned excuses himself and wanders to the far end of the bar to check on his patrons. Deciding it best to leave the man to his own thoughts, Ruairí turns his attention back to the boy. He doesn’t know if Caleb notices the audience participation or not, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. The lad is enthusiastic about his music either way, as he seems to be about life these days. _Ceannaire_ keeps tabs on the lad as she does other potential members, and _Athair’_ s reports are highly encouraging. _Four years removed from walking out of the Shannon. It’s a good sign._

The song comes to an end, and Caleb stands. He turns to a sprinkle of claps and cheers, and bows with flushed cheeks and a wide smile on his face. It’s then that Ruairí realizes the full extent of the change that time has wrought. It was inevitable, of course, but this early? Chuckling mostly to himself, he reclaims his drink, muttering mostly to himself, “What’ve you and Nan been feeding him, Ned? He’s sprouting up like a weed!”

The bells on the door jingle again and three more patrons enter, waving and calling out their greetings as they head over to an empty table. Ruairí sighs; still no sign of Colin. Collecting his drink, he walks over to a table closer to the piano. He makes eye contact with Caleb and gestures to an empty chair. “Nicely done,” he praises, lifting his glass in salute as they both sit. “You like your music, do you?”

Caleb has his own glass containing something softer than Ruairí’s. He downs what’s left in one gulp and sets it aside. Ruairí can’t blame the kid; it’s obvious by the sweat rolling down his temples in beads and staining the collar of his shirt that he’s been at it for a while. “Sure,” Caleb replies with a matching grin. “Who doesn’t around here?”

Ruairí laughs. The kid – kid! Caleb looks more like a young man than a child these days! – stands nearly as high as his shoulders. Ruairí himself is tall, Caleb has the potential to outgrow even him! “True enough,” he agrees heartily. “Does that mean you’re taking over some nights for Nan? Leading us in the patriotic songs, I mean?”

Caleb nods. “I hope so. Soon, maybe. But Nan says I can’t stay late very often.” His heavy sigh expresses a frustration he doesn’t admit to aloud.

Ruairí understands the look of disappointment that crosses the boy’s face and settles in his eyes. _Time to nip that in the bud before it takes hold_ , he decides. Leaning toward him, he lowers his voice so only Caleb can hear. “Now, lad, you listen to me. You and I, we both have something in common.”

One of Caleb’s brows arches in disbelief, but he doesn’t speak.

Ruairí bites back a smile. Who can blame him? Youth always wants to think it’s smarter than its elders. “You see, lad, you and I? We’re both _Dara._ D’you know what that means around here?”

Caleb tilts his head into his hand and Ruairí watches. Caleb has the kind of eyes that can hide his true expression as much as reveal it, and right now it is clear the boy is giving the question serious thought. “It means second?”

Grinning, Ruairí pounds the flat of his hand on the table as he declares, “That’s right! Neddy’s right; you are a clever one!” Around them, soft chuckles indicate he’s been heard. Caleb flushes a little, but maintains eye contact. Pleased, Ruairí adds more quietly, “What it means is that you and I are both training to step into someone else’s shoes someday. Me with Glennon; you with Nan and her piano.” He pauses to toss back the dregs of his drink. “What d’you think of that?”

Any reply from Caleb stops when two others approach the table. Ned arrives with another soft drink for Caleb while Colin slides into the empty chair while setting two pints down. “C’mon, lad,” Ned tells Caleb, “you’ve got your homework to finish.”

At the crestfallen look that crosses Caleb’s features, Ruairí claps him on the shoulder. “Priorities first,” he advises as Colin slides one of the pints to him. “Your time will come soon enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ruairí watches as Ned leads Caleb away into the back room for a quieter space in which to work before he turns to his companion. This time, there is a more serious look on his face. “You’re late.”

Colin snorts softly and lifts his drink. “ _Sláinte._ ”

“ _Sláinte._ ”

Ruairí sets his glass down again just as Ned return to the table and Colin explains, “I stopped to pick up a few things on the way over.”

Hearing Colin’s words, Ned remains only long enough to ask, “You boys aren’t out to start anything tonight, are you?”

Ruairí and Colin look up at him. With his usual charming and disarming smile, Ruairí reassures him quickly, “No, Neddy, it’s only a scouting mission. We’ll be there and back again before you know it.”

Ned sighs before wandering back behind the bar. It isn’t approval by any means, but Ruairí is aware Ned would speak his mind if he had concerns.

“He worries over much,” Colin mutters half in irritation and half in fondness. “It’s not like we haven’t done recon missions before.”

Ruairí shakes his head. “It’s more than that and you know it.” For months, Nan’s health has been declining and Ned’s loyalties are being severely tested. Ruairí knows the old man enjoys the pub’s status as unofficial headquarters for the _Reds_ , but he is also aware that the stress that comes from worry when any of them head off on missions leaves both Ned and Nan uneasy. The activities aren’t the _cause_ of Nan’s health issues, but they certainly don’t help her current situation. And Ruairí has no doubt in his mind that Ned is thinking about what shape a future without Nan in it will take. _It will be a lonely one indeed, my friend._

Rising to his feet, Ruairí finishes the second pint and slams the glass onto the table as a sign of his appreciation. “C’mon,” he murmurs to Colin as he nods goodbye over at Ned, “let’s get this over with.”

They exit into the cool autumn night, pausing to hunch deeper into their jackets for warmth. The skies are near dark; a new moon will serve their purpose well this night. They turn and start walking east. 

“Tell me about this meeting,” Colin asks after a few blocks and they are well away from most foot traffic.

Ruairí pulls his jacket closer against a biting wind that springs up off the river. “One of the groups from Limerick has shown interest,” he explains. “They talk like they want to join forces with us. Permanently.”

A moment of silence fills the space before Colin counters, “But you don’t believe them.” It’s more statement than question. 

Ruairí shrugs. “I don’t trust them, no. Neither does _Ceannaire_.” Using Glennon’s title was a subtle reminder to his friend. From here on out, they are on the mission and their real names are not to be used. “The meeting is tomorrow. I want to reassure her there are no concerns going in other than what we already know.”

“Understood, _Dara_ ,” Colin replies. Reaching over with his right hand, he triggers an omni-tool on his left. “Picked this up for a song from Jimmy,” he explains when Ruairí stares at the glow emanating before them. “I’ll get a good scan of the area. If there’s any trickery afoot, we’ll know about it ...”


	4. Ceannasai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceannasai = Commander

_2168_

Colin arrives at _Old Neddy’s_ after dark and slips inside quietly. He keeps to the shadows on the edges of the room, not interested in conversation or attention just now; he has things to think about, plans to make, and they are weighty, indeed.

He discovers, much to his own chagrin, he is not nearly as sneaky as he thinks he is. Barely is he seated at the table when Caleb slides onto the bench across from him. Colin eyes him pointedly, hoping he will take the hint. He doesn’t; but at least he is polite and says nothing. Colin sighs softly; the boy doesn’t need too. There is a look in Caleb’s eyes that leaves Colin just a bit on edge. Still, he intends to avoid it and isn’t afraid to be blunt about it. “I’m not here for conversation, lad.”

“I know.” 

The words are soft, matter of fact, and spoken with such assurance it only serves to intensify the _Ceannasai’s_ unease. Caleb remains where he is, ever patient, his piercing blue eyes focused. A sudden and inexplicable dread settles in Colin’s belly and churns. 

It’s been eight years since Ned and Nan took Caleb into their home, and in that time, the lad has never been anything but polite and respectful to the members of the _Reds_. He quiet, reserved, but his eyes see everything in a way Colin envies. In fact, as they sit at the table now, the boy’s eyes flit around the room, noting everything going on inside the pub. At fourteen, his skills of observation are that of a man well into adulthood. 

But this evening, there is something different about him. Something new, sharp and intense, that surrounds him. Colin knows it has to be more than a bad grade at school or a spat with his latest girlfriend. He isn’t opposed to helping the lad when he can by offering an ear to listen, but in this moment his gut warns him it is more than he wants to deal with. Still, Ned is a good friend and supporter of the _Reds_ , and Colin will not risk endangering that. He takes a deep breath before asking, albeit warily, “What is it?”

Caleb leans a bit forward so that their conversation is only between the two of them. “You need me.”

_Fuck!_ Ice chills Colin’s veins so quickly he almost cannot move. He shakes his head once in protest before hissing with all the authority he can manage, “No.” But in the back of his mind, even as he bites his lip to the point of pain, he wonders who he is trying to convince more, himself or the boy.

Caleb’s brow arches in silent challenge. It is the only noticeable sign of argument. “What of Declan?”

The metallic taste of blood slithers across his tongue as the skin beneath his teeth splits; it doesn’t help the situation. Digging deep, he grasp onto the strained tethers holding politeness within reach. The challenge is still present in his words, and it is one Colin cannot, _should_ not, ignore. _But I can’t …_ “Caleb –.”

“What of Eamon?”

Colin struggles to swallow past a tight lump in his throat. He wants to cross himself; God alone knows he may need it before this night is out if the lad keeps this up! Instead, he finds the strength to insist, “Lad, _no_. What would I tell your da?” 

For just a moment, he senses hesitation. Caleb’s face doesn’t change, neither do his eyes, not really, but it is obvious he is _thinking._ Neddy’s admonition that the boy is a ‘smart one’ has been proven repeatedly over the years, and this moment is no different.

As for himself, Colin is a fighter, a tactician, a planner. He certainly isn’t a talker or charmer. He can express himself effectively enough when he needs to, and tonight he will rely on all the charm he can muster to convince the boy to walk away. Glennon may have her eye upon him, but the lad is still too young. Colin can’t do anything less …

Very still, steady and calm, Caleb sits in his seat. _Too calm._ There is no time to heed the warning as Caleb replies, “Ned knows my thoughts.”

Eyes widening, he pulls back in surprise. “You’ve told him, then?”

A hint of a flush fills the boy’s cheeks as Caleb shakes his head, and Colin almost sighs in relief at such a typical teenage reaction. _Almost,_ because in the next moment Caleb clarifies, “He’s known since the first time I met _Ceannaire_. My place is with the _Reds_.” His eyes glisten with intensity. “ _Ceannaire_ promised.” He pauses, stares down at his hands on the tabletop briefly, then lifts his eyes to Colin’s once more. “And you need me.”

Coin runs his hands over his face, sighs. “You are _fourteen_ , lad!” he protests and plays whatever card he has available; all bets are off if he is to have a chance in this battle. “Ned will kill me – _all_ of us! – if anything happens to you!” 

The right corner of Caleb’s mouth curves slightly; just a tic, and it is as unnerving as the predatory look that fills in his eyes. In that moment, Colin silently admits defeat. _He knows he has won …_

“Colin, you _need_ me,” Caleb repeats, ruthlessly driving his point home. “You sent Declan and Eamon, and look where that got you!” 

“And if the same were to happen to you? What then?” Colin’s argument is fueled by fear this time. “Neddy’ll be all alone! Do you really want to do that to him? To the man who has treated you like a son all these years?”

Caleb’s facial expression does not change. “I know what happened to them,” he continues as if Colin hadn’t interrupted. “Just as I know you have no one else who can get in –.”

“What you’re suggesting isn’t the same as nicking someone’s credit chit or sneaking a girl back home after dark, boy!” he hisses. “These people are out to get us, to _claim_ the _Reds_ and our territory as their own! They mean business!”

Caleb holds steady, his expression never wavering nor changing. “I heard you talking to _Cennaire_ last night,” he says after nearly a minute of silence. “You _need_ that information. I can get in there without being noticed, get the information, and get back out without being noticed.”

Colin scowls. Yes, he is fully aware the boy has skill, but he’s still a _boy_. Declan and Eamon were years’ veterans and fully trained. “And just how do you think you will succeed where they could not?” he demands, partly driven by anger and partly by the hope Caleb will provide something he can use to deny this request. 

The right side of Caleb’s lips move up another tic. It is the look of one who claims victory, though Colin will not give it to him that easily …

… until Caleb announces, “I have the security code to get into the building.”

Colin’s breath lodges painfully in his lungs and for a long, silent minute, he just stares. Finally, in a rough whisper, he demands, “How the hell did you – ?”

The hint of a smile shifts to smug smirk. “Connections, _Ceannasai_.”

_Shit!_ For one long minute, Colin sits there and stares at Caleb in disbelief. The boy’s expression does not change. He swallows the sigh and reaches over to activate his omni-tool, fingers flying rapidly across the keyboard without conscious thought as he says, “I need approval before I can even consider this idea …”

~

Two nights pass and Colin sits at the same table, a pint in his hand, his eyes glued to the chronometer on his ‘tool as each second ticks away. Across from him, Glennon slowly nurses her whiskey. Ruairí is around as well, seated at the bar in an attempt to keep Ned distracted as he cleans up for the night. It’s late; last call was hours ago, but they all wait like expectant parents.

Colin’s mind races. _He’s too young, I should never have agreed to this. I should have given him a pistol at the very least, or some other way to protect himself, but there wasn’t time to train him up proper …_ His gaze drifts over in the direction of the bar. Never before has Ned looked so old, the lines on his face so prominent. Nan’s passing was difficult, yes, but Colin knows the thought of Caleb is out there, alone, his life on the line for the _Reds_ , might just kill the old man. And if that happens, guilt will soon chase Colin into the grave with him.

He doesn’t realize his fingers are tapping along the tabletop until Glennon reaches over and covers his hand with hers. “Relax,” she suggests without looking him in the eye. “He’ll be fine.”

“Do you really believe that?” He can’t help but snipe, fear is not something he often has to face head on.

Green eyes lift to meet his as she nods. “I have to.”

The soft creak of the door that separates the kitchen from the main part of the pub echoes through the room. Colin is half to his feet, his hand reaching for the pistol he always carries these days, by the time he realizes there is no danger; Caleb is back. “Where’d you come from?” he demands sharply.

The boy grins back at him, his shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I know my way around.”

Glennon’s soft chuckle is a stark reminder of his foolishness and Colin drops heavily back into his seat once more. “As well you should!” he calls over. It is a poor ending to the discussion, but at least it releases the pent up frustration he’s held in all night.

The lad pauses at the bar where he hugs Ned and murmurs something quiet that Colin cannot hear. The relief in the room is palpable, and Ned nearly buckles from the strain. Caleb reacts quickly, sliding beneath his shoulder and holding him in support, just until the older man can right himself. Ruairí rushes around to assist. Only then does Caleb wander across the room. 

Colin watches for any sign that the boy ran into trouble, but he moves easily and without difficulty. No sign of injury, or worse. His clothing shows no undue wear and tear. Colin’s gaze lifts to Caleb’s face, and while not smug, there is a smile of satisfaction that graces his mouth and sparkles in his eyes. Caleb’s fingers move over his omni-tool as he slides into the spare seat at the table. A moment later, a ping at the wrists of Colin and Glennon fills the air. “This is what I found.”

Colin immediately opens the file. He thinks to skim through it first, to ask for any necessary clarification, with the intent to examine it in further detail once he’s had sleep. But what he finds inside is a treasure trove of information, photos, scans; far too much data to skim over to get a good idea of next steps. It takes him a minute before he realizes this isn’t just a quick casing of the building, but far more. And tucked away at the bottom of the file, he finds a six digit code. 

The amazement must show on his face because Caleb says, “I told you I could do it.”

Glennon, who has been silently looking through the information too, responds, “That you did.” She looks over at Colin. “Is this what you needed?”

Colin nods. “Aye. And then some.” He closes his eyes for a moment as he makes a quick tactical evaluation based on what he has seen so far. “Two days,” he says when he opens them again. “I’ll have our tactical assessment ready then.”

_Ceannaire’s_ eyes focus solely on him; he doesn’t look away or flinch. He knows what is coming next. “And Caleb?”

Colin glances in the direction of the bar and is halfway to his feet when his eyes meet Ned’s. Pride shines brightly on the older man’s face, but there is still that hint of fear. Colin waits a heartbeat, then another, as if looking for some sort of sign. Ruairí murmurs something Colin cannot hear, and Ned nods. 

Looking over at Glennon, _Ceannasai_ replies, “He’s in.” His eyes shift to Caleb. “I hope you know what you’ve signed on for, lad,” he murmurs while placing a hand on Caleb’s shoulder and patting him. “It won’t always be this simple.”

In that moment, Colin sees a shift in Caleb’s eyes. The predatory look is back, only fiercer than ever, as he nods. “I am ready.” 


	5. Madrai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madrai - "dogs" (in this sense, think of it as the equivalent to 'grunts' - the foot soldiers of the group)

_2169_

The fierce winds of a North Atlantic gale batter the outside of _Old Neddy’s_ with a cold straight from the Arctic, but inside, the atmosphere is one of warmth and camaraderie. Few dare brave the weather to venture out when it gets this bad, but it is no surprise that of those who do, most number among the _Reds_.

Despite the raging storm, the pub is lively; filled with music, laughter and life. Glennon, Ruaíri and Colin sit at the bar and chat with Ned while the younger members _,_ entertain themselves at a large table in the middle of the room. They are the heavy lifters of the group; the foot soldiers bent on seeing that the _Reds_ make a difference. If any deserve a chance to let loose and relax, they do, a fact of which _Ceannaire, Dara_ and _Ceannaisi_ are well aware.

Tréasa, the oldest and most senior among them, oozes into a chair with a sparkle of mischief in her blue eyes and a curl of a challenge at her lips. “C’mon, Caleb,” she urges as gestures with her beer bottle to a point across the room. “You know you want to!”

Ciara, the youngest and newest of them, stands behind Caleb’s chair while wrapping a protective arm around his shoulder. “Why can’t you leave him be!”

A soft snicker rises from the group before another taunts, “Since when does he need you to protect him?”

Caleb’s attention is focused on the deck of cards he shuffles rather than on Sean. In a soft yet firm voice he replies, “I don’t.”

Sean snickers again and takes a swig of his drink. “Not how _I_ see it,” he retorts. He accompanies it with a broad, suggestive wink.

Caleb sets the deck in the center of the table, ignores Sean and turns his full attention to Tréasa. Her challenge is nothing new to him; most all of the _Reds_ have tried it at one time or another, some even before he joined their ranks. He’s never walked away from a challenge of any kind, and he isn’t about to start now. However, he’s not going to just hand it to her. If she wants it, she has to _earn_ it. Eyes rising to meet hers, he responds with a sly smirk, “Ladies first.”

Silence fills the air around them for a half heartbeat as the rest wait to see what Tréasa will do. She, too, has yet to back away from a challenge, and for that brief moment, Ciara, Sean and Brennan wait with baited breath to see who blinks first.

A burst of laughter escapes from Tréasa’s lips and she pounds her fist on the table, effectively ending the standoff. “And risk your wrath if I do injury?” Her face softens a fraction as does her voice as she adds more solemnly, “I know how much she meant to you.”

Caleb resigns himself to defeat, sighs and pushes himself to his feet. Leave it to Tréasa to find a way to back out, but she is clever and he can respect that. Figures she resorts to emotional blackmail; but with a slight nod, he acknowledges she does have a point. Downing the rest of his drink in one gulp, he turns and walks away. “Fine,” he calls back over his shoulder as he walks toward the piano, “but I’m not playing alone!”

Tréasa jumps to her feet, her fingers hooking around Brennan’s collar in the process. He responds to the unexpected summons with a yelp and nearly spills his drink all over himself in the process. Sean and Ciara chuckle, but scramble to their feet before she can do the same to them. All three accompany her across the room without any real protest. They are a united front, after all, in everything they do, and downtime is no exception.

Caleb is already settled on the bench when they arrive. His long legs stretch out in front of him near the pedals, and he cracks his knuckles before resting his hands lightly atop the keys. Brennan sidles over to the left with Tréasa and Sean takes the right, but Ciara drops to sit on the bench with Caleb, nudging his shoulder gently with hers in the process. A barely noticeable hint of pink creeps up his neck, but he glances over and flashes her a smile as he makes space. 

The first notes have no particular connection to any tune but are simply used to warm up. The repetition of scales limber the fingers, the chords come from muscle memory. Still, within mere moments and the ease of someone used to such things, he slides into an easy, almost jazzy tune which eventually transitions into something else. After three incarnations, and the entire room is now filled with humming and hand clapping, Caleb shifts into one of Nan’s old patriotic standards. It’s at this point Tréasa and Brennan start to sing. Sean joins in as well, and even Ciara manages a verse or two while helping with piano. Caleb remains silent, allowing his fingers to speak for him but his face takes on that soft, dreamy smile he usually has when something he’s worked so hard to achieve comes easily. Music fills _Old Neddy’s,_ wreathing it in warmth and familiarity, a gentle comfort for a cold winter’s night.

Over at the bar, Glennon half-turns and eyes the group. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Ned, thankfully, is busy with patrons at the other end of the counter, but Ruaíri and Colin notice. “Do you want me to stop them, _Ceannaire_?” Colin asks.

Glennon shakes her head. “No, let them have their fun while they can.”

A soft ping at Ruaíri’s wrist pulls her attention back around to him, meeting his gaze as his rises from his omni-tool. “Moira, Nora and Darragh,” he murmurs quietly. 

Colin tenses immediately – he may not always openly show it, but his concern for his people runs deep, and they’ve lost far too many recently. “And?”

Ruaíri sighs softly and tosses back the last of his whiskey in one gulp. “They’re making a move on Bunratty.”

Glennon groans. _Can’t we have just one night. Just one?_ Anger surges through her but she keeps her voice low so as not to alert anyone else in the room. “Dammit! For once, just _once_ , I’d like to see a treaty last!”

Colin rises, starting toward the _madrai_ , but Glennon reaches out and grasps his shoulder. “Don’t,” she insists. “Let ‘em have tonight. God knows tomorrow, and the reality of our situation, will come soon enough.”

~

Ciara runs down the street, light and swift as always, counting off the blocks as she passes. She isn’t worried about anyone watching her movements today; the skies above offer little light among the greyness, and her winter gear hides her well in the snowstorm. Between gusts of cold North Atlantic wind and heavily falling snow, her tracks are too obscure to follow. But she’s been running for a while now and it’s difficult to catch her breath, though that is more due to the cold in the air than any physical exertion. She has a mission and will not let anything stop her from completing it.

She slows with caution, careful not to slip on the ice and snow, when _Old Neddy’s_ comes into view, and yanks the door open with a bit more force than is necessary. The chimes fill the air and Ned glances her way with a smile and a tilt of his head as she slips inside. Shouts of dismay at the wind and cold she lets in are typical and she takes no offense. After a moment to brush the snow off her clothing so she doesn’t track it through the pub, she lowers her hood and looks across the room to find her target sitting in a booth with Caleb and Saoirse. She waves her thanks at Ned as she walks by the bar and heads over.

The tension is thick in the air as she arrives, and for a moment she’s afraid she’ll be sent away, but then Colin slides over to make room for her and she sits. Still catching her breath, she listens carefully to their conversation. It only takes a moment or two before she realizes they are discussing something tied to her own news.

“Colin,” Saoirse insists, glancing sideways at Caleb who nods, “we must do something! They’ve already taken out the _Donoughmores_ and the _Killalees_ , and now they’ve got eyes on Bunratty!” Her eyes flare angrily. “ _Our_ territory!”

“Something will be done,” he promises, “but you know as well as I do that our numbers aren’t what they used to be. To survive this, we must be cautious.”

Ciara lets her gaze shift over to Caleb. Always in such meetings he is the quiet one. Looking. Listening. Evaluating. It’s a rare day he speaks out unless spoken to first, and she can understand why. He’s moved up the ranks quickly, proven himself well enough to lead the reconnaissance section despite his young age. Glennon and Ruaíri trust him implicitly and that certainly helps, but his youth is occasionally a hinderance, especially at times like this. Colin never means anything personal by it, but it’s well known nothing’s more important to him than experience.

All eyes finally turn to her; Ciara’s breathing now level, and she nods. “Glennon heard from Siobhan and Killian,” she explains, her eyes moving nervously between all three of them. “Patrols along the border are heavier than usual, even out in this mess.” She nods toward the door as she speaks before whispering softly around a sudden tightness in her throat, “Lorcan was caught; his body washed ashore this morning.”

Her words are barely out of her mouth when Caleb jumps to his feet, eyes glittering, and slams his fist on the tabletop. He ignores the clatter of glasses and plates as he hisses, “We cannot let this continue, _Ceannaisi_! I’ll go –!”

Saoirse’s head darts, her green eyes still flashing with anger as they meet his. “Not alone, you won’t!” 

The tension between them boils for just a moment, and Ciara wonders if Caleb will allow the open defiance. He’s _sealgaire_ of their _conairt_ , and therefore leader, but Saoirse has a good four or five years on him in both age and experience. This isn’t the first time they’ve clashed, and before it’s always been resolved peacefully.

Caleb’s lips half-curve into a smug smile. “I never intended to go alone,” he replies. It’s enough to calm her for the moment, and he turns his attention back to Colin. “All the more reason we should go.”

Ever the stubborn one, however, Colin sighs and shakes his head. 

Caleb leans toward him. “Saoirse is right, and you know it! We need to know what they’re up to! If they reach Bunratty and we aren’t prepared, we won’t stand a chance!”

Ciara decides it’s time to jump into the fray. Turning to Colin, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she all but whispers, “ _Ceannaire_ ’s orders are to send them.” She hates being in the middle of issues like this, but she cannot deny a direct request from _Ceannaire._

Colin sits in silence for a long minute and masks his face so they cannot tell what he thinks. As a general rule, _Ceannaisi_ is responsible for the more militant activities of the group while _Ceannaire_ takes care of the business and political side. Still, she is _Ceannaire_ , and that means she has the final say in all matters; which doesn’t mean that _Ceannaisi_ is always ready to accept it. In fact, the two have come head to head before, and of late more frequently as the _Greystones_ continue to test the borders of _Reds_ territory. 

Colin finally shakes his head and mutters something soft beneath his breath that Ciara cannot hear clearly. When his eyes find her first, she can guess, however. _A prayer._ “Caleb, you and Saoirse only.”

“No. We’re going to need backup to do this right,” the younger man insists.

Colin considers that briefly, eventually nodding. “Take Brennan and Sean,” he decides. “They’ve got good instincts and they’re good in a fight if you run into trouble.” 

Caleb nods once and moves aside so Saoirse can slip out of the booth and start toward the exit. Before he follows, Ciara meets his gaze. His wink is reassuring, but she responds with an eye roll like always while murmuring, “ _Go n-eirí an t-ádh leat._ ” As he turns away, she sees his smile widen just a bit.

Colin turns to Ciara now, a hint of suppressed amusement in his voice as he asks, “Go tell the lads to prepare for me, will you, Ciara?” 

Colin is well aware of her affection for Caleb, and that Caleb returns it, but she can’t stop the blush that rises to her cheeks. Rising, she nods and pulls up her hood. “Should we not send more than just the four of them? What if – ?”

“They will be fine,” he replies. 

She casts one last, doubtful look in his direction, and it is then she sees the expression on his face as he downs the remainder of his drink in one gulp. A chill as cold as the wind outside runs through her and leaves her shivering as she realizes that he doesn’t believe his own words.

~

The alleyway is dark and quiet save for the soft scuffle of booted feet and the soft hiss of a word here and there. A stack of shipping crates offers little protection from the winds and snow, but make it a bit more of a challenge for anyone looking down the path to see them. Brennan shivers as another cold breeze works its way down his collar, but his eyes remain focused on the eastern side as Sean watches the western approach. Crouched down between the two, Caleb and Saoirse deal with the more technical side of things; hacking into the _Greystones_ network. 

“Got it!” Caleb hisses after what seems an eternity to Brennan in a tone just loud enough for the group to hear over the winds. A moment later, he and Saoirse are on their feet and the group begins to move west.

They travel in silence, using the darkness to their advantage while weaving their way in and out of shadows as they go. It’s strange to think that as the crow flies, they’re less than a couple of miles from Bunratty; this used to be _Reds_ territory, but it now it’s under _Greystones_ control. Brennan’s been here before, back when it was under their control, and it’s easy – and sad – to see the differences. That fact is more than enough to stir up his ire. 

For a time, after the _Greystones_ first arrived in Limerick, the gangs had lived in relative peace. There were occasional skirmishes, of course, but nothing that couldn’t be talked through. The last time, some five years before, resulting in a long-standing treaty of alliance between the two groups. _That_ resulted in a long wave of prosperity for both sides. But now it appears whatever treaty once existed is long gone. 

Brennan doesn’t blame _Ceannaire_ or the leadership for what’s happened; if anything, the _Greystones_ surprised them and the other gangs in the area as they slowly but surely conquered the other groups. One gang after another, after another ended up defeated and their territory forfeit. Now, only the _Reds_ remained in place to keep them from taking control of the western part of Ireland. All of Glennon’s hard to get the _Reds_ back to where they’d once been is now rapidly fading. How much longer will they be able to hold out before they, too, disappear off the grid? 

Caleb stops suddenly in front of Brennan and gives a quick hand signal toward their left. Quickly and quietly, the foursome scramble behind cover as they can, and not a moment too soon. Barely are they hidden when a group of about a dozen or so, all in _Greystones_ colors, walk by. Brennan counts silently in his head; they don’t move from cover until he hits one hundred, and even then, it’s with extreme caution. Saoirse moves to take point, slowly venturing forward and checking the area before signaling the rest.

It takes them four times as long to cover the distance back to Bunratty. As they scramble through the checkpoint, Brennan hears Caleb murmur to Liam, “Alert _Ceannaire_ and _Ceannaisi_ we’re inbound.”

“Aye, _Sealgaire_.”

Brennan moves forward, still on alert – this is the border edge between groups, after all – and walks next to Caleb. “We walking or driving?”

For the first time all night, Brennan sees a hint of humor curl at Caleb’s mouth. “If you think I’m getting behind the wheel with you driving again – .”

Brennan doesn’t take offense and both start to laugh. “Sean,” he calls behind him, “you’re driving.”

“Awww, d’I have to?”

He shares another look with Caleb who grins as he replies, “Drinks are on me when we get to HQ.”

~

Nora and Aoife sit in a corner of the pub when Caleb and Shane return from a patrol, their heads bowed over the terminal as they continue to work on deciphering the _Greystones_ code. It’s early yet, _Old Neddy’s_ not even officially open for the evening, and Caleb ducks behind the bar to grab a drink for himself and his partner before they join the girls. 

“How goes it?” Shane asks, nodding his thanks as Caleb hands over a bottle.

Nora sighs and blows loose strands of dark hair from her eyes as she sits back. “Still stuck,” she mutters. Aoife continues working, impervious to the interruption. Nora rubs at exhaustion-filled eyes and reaches over for Shane’s drink. He hands it over and she takes one long sip before returning it to her brother. “Patrol go okay?”

Shane nods. “Fine,” he replies. 

“Where’s Ciara?” Caleb asks. “Isn’t she helping you two?”

Aoife lifts her head finally and looks over the top of the monitor at him. “She and Sean were sent to Bunratty.”

Quiet descends over the table. Two weeks have passed since the mission to grab _Greystones_ intel, and in that time, _Ceannaisi_ has been sending an increasing number of _madrai_ to hold the border and protect what’s theirs. 

Caleb tilts his chin at the console between him and Aoife. “Want me to take a look?” While his skill at hacking isn’t as good as hers, he’s got a quick eye and notices subtle differences or changes in coding before the others do at times. 

A soft beep fills the air as she starts to turn the device, and her eyes widen in surprise. “I … I think I got it?” She turns it back toward her, scans the screen, and her fingers start flying across the keyboard once more. 

Nora looks over Aoife’s shoulder at the screen. After a few minutes studying what scrolls by, her eyes widen. She pulls up her omni-tool and dashes off a quick message before looking over at her brother and Caleb. “We’re going to need _Ceannaire_ and _Ceannaisi_ for this.”

It takes time for the others to arrive, and by then the pub prepares to open. To distract themselves, Caleb and Shane assist Ned in that process. By the time the first patrons walk through the door, the younger men return to their table. Caleb has his deck of cards out and he and Shane pass the rest of their wait by playing various games. Nora and Aoife focus on organizing the information they have unlocked.

It’s late by the time the emergency meeting winds down, more than two hours past last call, but by now there are no doubts about what they can expect from the _Greystones_ in the weeks to come

Glennon sits back heavily in her chair. “Well, then.”

Across the table, Colin’s eyes darken. “If it’s a war they want,” he murmurs, “then by all that’s holy, we’ll give ‘em one!”

Ruaíri pinches the bridge of his nose as if suffering a headache which, in fact, he is. “How can they think they’ll get away with this?”

A chair shuffles against the floor and all eyes focus on Caleb. “They already have,” he replies bluntly. “While we hid behind a treaty, they took care of the little fish.” He stares over at _Ceannaire_ and asks, “How many other groups did they absorb?” 

“Too many,” Glennon mutters.

Caleb’s head bobs in agreement. “And this isn’t the first time they’ve used this tactic.” Old hatreds die hard, as the saying goes, but for the _Reds_ , the fact that the top leadership of the _Greystones_ apparently originates in London, is oil poured over an already flaming fire. 

Ruaíri stares at his hands, but his words are directed at Caleb. “Lad, you’ve uncovered a hornet’s nest with this. If they ever find out …”

Caleb rises to his feet and pushes his chair in. “They won’t,” he replies firmly. “Oh, they might figure out someone got into their network, but they won’t _know_ who.” His eyes meet Saoirse’s as she nods back at him. “We made sure of that.”

Colin runs a hand over his face. “We have less than a week until their offensive begins,” he states, his eyes meeting everyone around the table. “We’re going to need some quick planning and repositioning.”

Ruaíri looks over at Glennon who silently gives her assent. “I’ll assist with that,” he promises _Ceannaisi_. “In the meantime, we need to get the word out. Bunratty needs to be warned.” He stands, his eyes surveying everyone at the table. “From here on out, we’re on high alert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are a number of Irish words and phrases in this chapter, most of which will have their own chapter coming after this one, so I'll leave those more indepth explanations for later.
> 
> Go n-eirí an t-ádh leat = good luck


	6. Conairt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conairt = pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a quick note for reference: This occurs the same year as Mindoir for a Colonist Shepard. Caleb is 16.

_2170_

It is a rare day that _Old Neddy’s_ closes its doors to patrons. Holiday or not, it is a fixture in the neighborhood with doors open to any and all at all times. A place for celebration as well as sadness and mourning. A staple of the local landscape for centuries, it is a safe harbor, a port in any storm.

Shuttered windows and barred doors mark the pub on this day, and the storm that churns from within is as strong and violent as the strongest of North Atlantic gales.

“How could you let this happen?” The words filled with anger and accusation, and accompanied by pain echo throughout an otherwise silent common room. 

Caleb prowls throughout the space, doubt filling his mind for the first time since he was small; in recent memory, Nan or Ned stood guard, ready to cut down indecision before it took firm hold. It’s been under their guidance and protection he’s grown into a strong, dedicated young man, a leader in his own right. 

But overnight, that changes. Then is gone, and now is a new reality.

He is not alone, however. Two companions stand nearby in silence, an answer not easily produced, nor should it be. When Caleb stalks by, Glennon reaches out to him, wraps a hand around his arm and pulls him to a stop. Anger fuels him; like any good Irishman or woman, his emotions run strong and just beneath the surface. He has proven himself sure, bold even, and more than able to keep himself in check and under control when necessary. But these are circumstances that will put even that level of control to the test. At her touch, he tries to pull away, but her grasp stays firm. “We didn’t _let_ it happen, Caleb. They came while you were away, pretended to be something they weren’t.”

He spins on his heel to face her, and pins her in place with the intensity of his gaze. A snarl rips from his lips, a subtle reminder to her of his current position within her ranks. “Why _here_?” he demands. “Why _him_? He was just an old man who –.”

Glennon releases him and her hand falls limply to her side. “His support of the _Reds_ was well known,” she reminds him. “And even if they didn’t know that, it wouldn’t take much to discover his connection to you.”

“Ned knew the risks, lad,” Ruaíri interjects, before Caleb can respond, hoping to direct the teen’s ire at him for a time. Neither he nor Glennon have looked forward to this moment since finding out. 

Caleb is in no mood for explanations. “No, he knew the risks where _I_ am concerned, not for himself.” Anger flares again and he pounds his fist on the top of the bar. A lone bottle of whiskey, nearly spent, and three glasses clatter at the far end, but all remain upright. Barely. His head drops low, hanging so his chin touches his chest as a trickle of tears carve a path down his cheeks to the hard edge of his jawline where they drip one by one onto the counter, splashing softly against the old grained wood. For just a moment, he releases himself to the grief, to the pain, and to the inevitable fact that he is now and will always be _alone._ Oh, the _Reds_ are family, and he’s lost several good friends and people he considers himself close to during this war with the _Greystones_ , but Nan and Ned were so much more …

A howling wind tugs at of one of the shutters on the outside of window and it crashes violently against the outer wall. It is enough to pause Caleb’s descent into the depths of despair, at least for the moment. With an angry swipe of his arm across his face, he turns to face _Ceannaire_ and _Dara_. “Who was it?” 

Glennon sees it first; the shift in his eyes, from victim to hunter and the blue-grey maelstrom desiring vengeance. She’s heard of it before, seen it once, but never to this degree and her breath catches tightly in her throat as she darts a quick look over at Ruaíri. 

_Dara_ steps forward, his lips already moving, but Caleb turns on him. In that moment, Ruaíri sees it too. The man within the lad taking form, making his presence known and leaving whatever remaining innocence of the child behind once and for all. 

Frustrated with the lack of response, Caleb demands a second time, “Who was it? Who did this to him?”

Ruaíri says what Glennon has not. “Go speak with Colin.” The words do not come easily. They are in the middle of a war for their very existence, and while he understands Caleb’s need for vengeance, he also recognizes that now isn’t the right time. Yet, how can he deny him? The _Greystones_ are taking things to a whole new level, targeting innocents as well as the _Reds_ themselves. Truth be told, were he in a similar situation, he would likely do the same. “He’ll give you the details of what we know.”

Caleb grabs his pack and jacket, slinging the latter over his shoulder as he strides toward the door. With each step, the aura that surrounds him changes, darkens. Deepens. His path forward is decided for all eternity.

“ _Sealgaire_?” Glennon’s use of his name stops his momentum, but only momentarily. He remains silent, his back still to her, but he listens. “Do not go alone.”

“This is _my_ duty,” he growls.

“And any good hunter knows to rely on his _conairt_ ,” she chides. “Do not go alone.”

It is difficult to miss the authority in her words, and he gives a clipped, reluctant nod in response. “As you say.” Three steps later, he is out the door.

Surprisingly, the tension in the room does not ease with his departure. Ruaíri walks up to the bar, pours two glasses of whiskey and hands one over to Glennon. It is telling that neither offers the usual toast; the import of what just transpired rings far too close for that. “I know I’ve said this before,” he murmurs, “but if you let him seek vengeance, it will only serve to escalate the situation.”

Glennon downs the content of her glass in one gulp. “Aye, that it will,” she agrees as she sets the glass down on the counter. When she faces him, it is impossible to miss the hard glitter of victory in her emerald gaze. “But it must be done, and just maybe,” she adds, “it will give us the advantage we so desperately need.”

In those few words, Ruaíri sees the truth behind them. He has known her far too long to miss it, and pieces suddenly fall into place; her reasons for not offering Ned the extra protection that might have saved, the view of _Sealgaire_ and his _conairt_ as tools for the cause. He swallows pat a tightness in his throat as he understands just what levels she will descend to in order to save the _Reds_. “Jesus, Glen!” he breathes. “If he ever finds out …”

She shakes her head. “He won’t.”

Ruaíri grimaces and retreats back behind rank. “I think you underestimate him, _Ceannaire_ ,” he warns once more. What was it Ned once said? “He is a clever one, don’t ever forget that.”

Glennon walks around him in the direction of the door. “I know him better than he knows himself,” she calls back over her shoulder. She pauses before pulling the barrier open and looks back at him. “And if he ever does find out, he’ll accept it.”

A look of pure skepticism crosses Ruaíri’s face. “And why is that?” Smugness isn’t pretty on _Ceannaire’_ s face, he decides a moment later.

“Because he trusts me.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to argue that with her, but she distracts him with her next question. “Who takes over the pub?”

This, at least, is something he has faith in. “Callum and Anna,” he says without hesitation. “They will keep it operational until Caleb is of an age to take over himself.”

“Aye, if that’s what he wants,” she agrees and gives a nod of satisfaction before exiting the building and leaving him alone. 

Ruaíri takes a moment to collect himself. As he looks around the room slowly, taking in the empty seats, the atmosphere of a place that was all Ned, his gaze finally stops on a fixed point behind the bar. A framed photograph hangs among the bottles and glasses; a picture of Ned, Nan and a very young Caleb taken shortly after the lad was brought into their home. Slowly, he lifts his glass in salute to the man and his family as he murmurs, "Ned, my friend, may you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you're dead." In the next moment he downs the drink in one gulp and sets the glass back onto the counter.

As he walks to the door, he can’t help but wonder if his toast was to Ned’s memory, to Caleb and his future, or to his role in allowing Glennon to manipulate the situation as she saw fit …

~

“Who was it?”

Colin is alone, his attention focused on cleaning and modding a pistol when Caleb walks in. These days, it isn’t just the _Reds_ who are wearing down, but their equipment as well. He doesn’t spare the younger man a glance nor does he comment on his lack of manners. Instead, continuing without interruption, he replies casually, “ _Greystones_ , who else?”

The room isn’t large, and what space is available is mostly filled with weapons, ammo and whatever food they can scrounge up. Colin may not be military trained, but he doesn’t send his people out unprepared if he can help it. 

Caleb deftly maneuvers the space, grabbing hold of the chair across from Colin and yanking it out. With a flick of his wrist, he spins it around so that when he drops onto it his arms fold across the back. His eyes are blue fire as they glare with silent accusation. “Ruaíri said you’d tell me,” he growls. “Said you’d give me information on who killed Ned.”

Carefully, Colin sets the weapon aside and folds his arms in front of him; it is a deceptive move, though any member of the _Reds_ would recognize it. This is _Ceannaisi_ at his most authoritative. Caleb, however, doesn’t seem to care. “Remember to whom you speak, lad. I am not about to allow you or your _conairt_ to go out and get yourselves killed when the _Reds_ ’re facing extinction.”

Controlled anger guides Caleb’s fist as it hits the table. He rises half out of the chair and leans in towards Colin; the weapon rattles precariously for several seconds before it stills. When he speaks, his voice is low, tightly controlled, with just enough emphasis where it counts. “This is my _right¸_ Colin! They invade our territory, flaunt their authority and kill an innocent in plain sight of everyone! They _spit at us and rub it in our faces_! They _can’t_ be left to walk away as if it doesn’t matter!”

A war of emotions rage behind the young eyes as Colin searches his face for a long minute. _Ceannaisi_ is well aware of the situation; _Ceannaire_ has made clear what she wants as a result. Still, Caleb is one of _his_ people, and he isn’t about to him or his _conairt_ into battle with blinders on taking a mission that can only result in suicide. 

“I have two names,” he says quietly, “but they are simply weapons. You know as well as I the orders for this came from higher up.”

Caleb pushes away from the table. “One name will lead to another,” he insists. “I’ll find my way there.”

“Not alone, you won’t.” There is a subtle shift in Caleb’s eyes, but he doesn’t argue the implication. _Ceannaire must’ve already said something to him_ , Colin realizes. 

“No, not alone,” Caleb agrees, though the reluctance is obvious. 

Colin gestures for him to sit again. He might not be able to stop this, to keep _Ceannaire_ from her grander plan, but that doesn’t mean he can’t prepare Caleb in any way he can. He takes an hour, goes over the facts as he knows them; Caleb’s attention – no, _Sealgaire’s_ attention does not waver one bit. There isn’t much to offer, but it’s a start, and if there is one thing Colin has always admired about Caleb, it’s his persistence … almost to the point of self-destruction. As the younger man rises to leave, Colin can’t help but worry that may be the more worrying aspect of this situation than the fact he is being used.


	7. Mactire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mactire - wolf

_2170_

Content for more than five minutes in what seems like forever, Moira stretches. Slowly, carefully and one at a time, she extends each long limb to its furthest, like a cat, just to the point of pain. She relishes the small ache, the subtle popping of joints, the sigh of relief that follows each. It is satisfying on numerous levels. 

To her left, the bed jostles and she glances over at Caleb with a fond smile. He, however, doesn’t appear impressed or content. _Not everyone appreciates a good stretch._ “Can’t you just lie still and go to sleep?” he mutters tugging the blanket over his shoulder and hunching beneath.

With one final roll of her neck, Moira drapes herself across his shoulders and snuggles close. “This is the first time we’ve had a bed to sleep in for over a week,” she points out. “Am I not allowed to enjoy it?”

“Sure.” He shifts a bit more, burrowing his head into the threadbare pillow in search of a comfortable position, eventually dragging it over the top of his head. “Just do it without waking me!”

She rolls off her side of the bed while reaching for the sweater she left nearby, a soft laugh at her lips. Dragging the warm wool over her head, she leaves the room and heads in the direction of the kitchen. The flat is small, but it’s located firmly in _Reds_ territory, and therefore as safe a haven as they find these days. She wanders over to the fridge and pulls out the milk, pours some into a bowl then adds the last of the box of cereal. It isn’t much in the way of a full meal, but it’ll do for now. She’s gone days without eating in past; running short like this won’t hurt. 

She’s standing at the sink and staring out the window as she cleans her things when a soft beep at her left wrist catches her attention. A quick glance is enough cause to turn off the water and return to the bedroom, purpose in each step. “ _Sealgaire_?” she calls out as she enters. His only response is a throaty rumbling growl of warning from beneath the pillow. Sighing, she walks over, picks up her pillow and thwacks him on the hip. “ _Ceannaisi_ ’s called a war council.”

“You go,” he mumbles, arm snaking out to wrestle it away from her.

She gives it up without a fight and sits beside him. Extending her hand, she gently caresses down the length of his arm. She’s relatively new to the _conairt_ , barely a year in the _Reds,_ but they’re a close-knit bunch. Close enough that she understands. “Caleb,” she murmurs more gently, “you can’t avoid _Old Neddy’s_ forever.”

He slams the pillow back over his head. “Watch me!”

“And when Saoirse asks about you?” 

Caleb says nothing, but lies very still for about a minute. Only then does he grunt, sitting up, keeping his back to her. He violently launches the pillow across the room where it hits the wall with a dull thud, but he stands and starts dressing, all the while muttering curses beneath his breath. Moira rises and leaves the room to give him space. At the best of times, _Sealgaire_ ’s temper is to be avoided; this is not one of the best of times.

Returning to the kitchen, she peeks out the window again. Rain still falls heavily, making the thought of being out in it low on the list of things she’d like to do today, but there’s no choice. Colin’s called a war council, and any and all _Reds_ not out on assignment need to attend. End of story. She has her suspicions as to why; these past few months have been rough. Bunratty fell within weeks and Cloughlea a fortnight after. The _Greystones_ reach now extends to the borders of old Shannon itself; that doesn’t just threaten _Reds_ territory, but the heart of it. Their constant push has left Shannon nearly surrounded, a solitary island floating alone and isolated in a sea of grey. They cannot afford to lose any more ground without the risk of falling completely.

Moira stands in the front hall, a ratty old coat to protect her and a worn canvas bag over her shoulder. When Caleb walks up, she hands over another. “It’s bucketing down,” she warns when he tries to refuse. His eyes, narrowed to two blue slits sparking with fire, meet hers as she shoves it into his arms. He dons it with ill grace, grabs his own pack and leads the way outside.

The trip to _Old Neddy’s_ takes fifteen minutes by foot on a good day. It’s nearly a half hour later when they run in through the door, water dripping and pooling into small puddles into around their feet on the landing. On the far side of the room, they see the others gathered, and they make their way over without a word. Colin nods at them both as they sit down. Somehow, cups of hot tea and scones make it around the table to them without much fuss. The meeting continues as if they did not interrupt.

Nearly three hours later, it finally breaks. During that time, while listening to the discussion, Moira glances around those gathered. They are far too few these days, and from the sounds of it, that won’t change anytime soon. Of those absent, two are new; Killian and Ciara. She sneaks a peek over at Caleb to see if he’s noticed yet. His eyes are focused on Colin, but there’s a tightness at the corner of his mouth and eyes that tells her enough. He knows the score.

As the group breaks up, Moira pulls him aside. “Where’ll you stay tonight?” she asks quietly.

He shrugs and reaches for his things. “I’ll find some place.” 

“ _Sealgaire_ –.”

His movements are sharp, meant to silence her as much as move into his coat. “It’s fine, _mactire_.” His words are firm, resolute, yet he avoids her gaze and she notices. “If the worst shall come, I’ll head to St. Senan’s. _Athair_ has a spare bunk in the basement.” Coat secured, he turns and kisses her cheek. “ _Go raibh maith agat_.” Without another word, he walks out of the pub. Moira watches him leave in silence.

When the door is closed behind him, she catches up with Colin who’s sitting at the bar. “ _Ceannaisi_ ,” she says by way of greeting.

He nods for her to take the empty seat next to him. “What troubles you, _mactire_?”

“ _Sealgaire_ ,” she replies. “He –.”

Colin reaches out and covers her hand with his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “There’s not much we can do if he doesn’t want us to,” he tells her, gently but firmly, “you know that.”

She nods as her eyes drift back to the door, still closed behind Caleb’s retreating form. “He’s running himself to an early grave.”

“And that’s his choice. Still, we both know he is tougher than he looks.”

Moira sits back and considers that. Their last mission hadn’t gone quite as she expected. They achieved their objective, but there had been a few … oddities along the way. “ _Ceannaisi_ , do the names Finch or Simmons mean anything to you?”

Colin stiffens, pulls his full attention to her. “Nothing in particular,” he replies. “Why?”

Moira, however, doesn’t miss the subtle changes, the way he scoots around her question. “When Caleb and I were returning, we ran into a _Greystone_ patrol. A small one,” she hurries to reassure him, “but we were required to fight our way out.”

He nods. “Aye, he told me.”

Leaning closer, she drops her voice so only he can hear. “I … I don’t think it was by accident. I think he _meant_ to run into them.”

Colin folds his arms across the table, his eyes hardening. “To what end?”

She chews on the corner of her lip nervously before replying, “I heard him demanding if they knew anyone named Finch or Simmons.” She swallows past a sudden lump in her throat and averts her eyes. She isn’t informing on Caleb, not really, but she has concerns for him. “He …”

Colin reaches out for her hand again. “Do not come between a hunter and his quarry, _mactire_ ,” he advises solemnly. 

“I didn’t … I wouldn’t!” A shiver runs through her. “But, _Ceannaisi,_ the look on his face!”

Colin’s grasp tightens. “This goes nowhere but between us,” he says. When she nods, he continues, “Caleb is _Sealgaire_ for a reason. He is on a hunt; one you cannot stop even if you wanted. Do _not_ get between him or his prey. Is that understood?”

All air in her lungs whooshes out in a rush but she nods one last time. “As … as you say, _Ceannaisi_ ,” she promises, rising to her feet. 

Without another word, she gathers her things together, says her goodbyes and heads back to the flat. The rooms feel emptier in Caleb’s absence. However, she has no time to focus on that, on _him,_ and instead starts preparing for the next mission.

~

Dawn is just breaking on the horizon as Colin exits the safety of _Old Neddy’s_ , but he’s confident in the night’s work. They have a plan, at least, and that’s the important thing. The walk to his home is short and he manages to utilize the last of the night’s clinging shadows. There are eyes watching, waiting, reporting; he knows they have to be, otherwise the _Greystones_ would not have such success in their conquest. 

Once he’s inside and safe, he pulls up his omni-tool and sends a message.

_Ceannaisi: Where did you land?_

While he waits for a response, he secures his flat. The soft beep comes just as he finishes.

_Sealgaire: St. Senan’s._

_Ceannaisi: Mactire is suspicious. She asked about Finch and Simmons._

There’s a short pause in which the screen remains still, but eventually a reply comes through.

_Sealgaire: The problem will resolve itself. Soon._

_Ceannaisi: You know where to find them?_

_Sealgaire: Aye._

Colin hesitates this time. His concern is for the son of a friend, for a friend in his own right, for a lad who under other circumstances might be a kid brother to him; yet he fully understands the need that drives him.

 _Ceannaisi:_ _Nár lagaí Dia do lámh!_

Stopping him is not within his power; giving him his blessing, Colin hopes, will salvage his conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go raibh maith agat = thank you  
> Nár lagaí Dia do lámh! = May God not weaken your hand.


	8. Dhorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dhorn = Fist

_2171_

The late-season biting chill off the North Atlantic cannot penetrate when body and soul are already numb. Three hours have passed since the news arrived; three unending, silent, _aching_ hours. Hours that steal energy from the body necessary to do anything but sit, think and stare at the vast nothingness life becomes. Loss is a part of life, and the way in which one deals with it speaks volumes. Still, life _must_ go on; their existence, the _Reds_ existence, depends upon it. 

_Dhorn_ is the first to reach deep, find the will to move. Will is not the equivalent of want, but _need_ , and the needs of the rest must come before her own. 

With a little encouragement, Moira and Aoife move, pulling themselves together enough to stumble out to their patrol. _Dhorn_ knows it isn’t fear that makes them hesitate, but grief, something for which they have no time at the moment. She secures the door behind them, whispers a soft prayer to the heavens above for their safety, and turns to face Caleb. Caleb, their leader, their huntsman … Caleb who has not moved an inch in over three hours, whose form is as stiff and solid as if carved of stone. Caleb for whom this blow hit far deeper than anyone, even she, expected.

The safe house is small, old, and one of a few known only to the oldest, lasting _Reds_. These days, the need to keep out of sight of the _Greystones_ , it offer the safest place to shelter. 

Saoirse moves into and around the small kitchen with familiarity. A kettle sits over the flame, gently bubbling as it heats, while on the counter nearby a pot warms in preparation. The tin of tea leaves waits beside it; cream and sugar already sit on the table beside a small plate of fresh scones. 

Standing at the stove, Saoirse tucks her long waves behind one ear so she can see Caleb in her peripheral. His back is straight in the old wooden chair, his hands lie atop the table surface, strangely still and inactive. But it’s his eyes that stare straight ahead – at what, she cannot imagine; the wall, the god-awful wallpaper, at memories that only he can see? – they are what concern her most. Given the circumstances, she suspects it is likely the message itself.

_Greystones took Brownhill. They took down Ceannaisi._

Startled from her musings by the boiling kettle, Saoirse pulls it from the heat and pours. Carrying it to the table, she slides into her chair. “ _Sealgaire?_ ”

He doesn’t move, not even a hint of acknowledgement, but she knows he hears. She pours a cup of the hot brew for them both, adding a bit of sugar. She reaches for the cream when his hand darts out and covers hers. He nearly knocks the cup over in the process, but she considers it a small price to pay if he is finally aware of his surroundings once more. “There you are,” she murmurs as she withdraws her hand and pours the cream into her cup.

His head turns slowly; their eyes meet, and in them she sees a maelstrom as dark and churning as the skies over the North Atlantic during a storm. Pain, anguish, frustration. All of this and more. His eyes are always the most expressive part of his features, the place where his true nature hides behind a façade of stone. Saoirse dips her chin toward the tea. “Drink up. It will help.”

He releases her, but his hand does not move closer to the cup. “Will it?” 

Her lips curve into a soft, sorrowful smile as she chides gently, “Colin would not have you be this way and you know it, Caleb.” 

He shakes his head once, a soft growl at the back of his throat, and still his hand does not move. “It would have been easier if –.”

She snorts softly, lifts her cup to her lips and takes a careful sip of the hot liquid. “It wouldn’t and you know it,” she replies, a hint of steel behind her tone. “Just like it doesn’t for any of us. We live; we die; it’s the cycle of life and there’s naught we can do to change or stop it.”

His head turns a bit more. The maelstrom darkens, but deep within, she sees recognition, understanding, acceptance. He knows it’s true. 

Reaching for a scone, she deftly splits it open and decorates it with a dollop of jam. When a small dribble slips down one side toward the table, she uses the tip of her finger to catch it and bring it to her lips. The sugary sweetness tingles across her taste buds. “How long will you wallow in sorrow, hmm?” She hates to adopt a harsh attitude towards the situation – Colin was her friend, a brother almost, and she feels the loss as keenly as the rest. But time is not their friend; the _Greystones_ by now likely know they’ve scored a big hit.

“Did he know?”

Saoirse blinks, startled, and searches his face. Spit and fire, that she expects in retaliation for needling him, but this …? Behind the churning storm, she catches a glimpse of something else. It takes a moment to register, and when it does, her lips and eyes soften of their own volition and she sets the cup aside. _Hope_. 

But with that hope, she senses something else, something she can’t put into words. His gaze does not waver, focused solely on her now. It is the same look that he gets when on a mission, when lining up his sights on his target. The one that will not back away until the mission is complete. And now _she_ is his target. She wipes her hands and settles them on the table between them as she takes a steadying breath. She has half expected this confrontation for a long while. Interesting he chooses this moment to pursue it.“ _Athair_ will have your hide if he finds out,” she murmurs, but the rebuke is empty and they both know it. Even _Athair_ understands desperate times call for desperate measures.

“I know you read for him,” Caleb insists, finally turning toward her. “Did he know this would be his end?”

Saoirse sighs. “Aye, I read for him. And aye, he knew the likely outcome. What of it?”

“Read for me.”

The three simple words flip her entire world upside down. She expects the anger, the rage, the denial. She is prepared to talk him down, to help guide him back to a path that won’t lead to early death like most of the other _Reds_. Beneath the exterior of iron, he is a young man of deep emotion and faith. But this? It takes her a moment to find her voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“Read for me,” he says. “Please.”

 _Read for me_. Unease settles in Saoirse’s chest. Most among the _Reds_ tolerate her ‘fortune telling.’ Some even believe in it, a little. Colin had been one of those, seeking her out before any major mission. But to her knowledge, Caleb, though quite aware of it, is not among that number. Never before has he asked, and certainly not under such extreme conditions. “Caleb, I – .” 

He says nothing, simply does not look away, and she finds herself wrapped up in the intensity of his gaze. She feels like a fish struggling to breathe out of water. How does she deny him this? 

Two minutes pass before she pushes to her feet. As she leaves, she scoots the plate with the scone over to him with one hand while squeezing his shoulder with the other. “Eat,” she insists. “I will be but a moment.” Once outside of the room, she takes a long minute to catch her breath and settle.

She returns some minutes later, setting a stack of playing cards between them. Old, worn, some bent, others faded, they are her lifeline. She takes a sip of tea then sorts through them. 

“How did you learn this?” Caleb asks. It is the first real hint of curiosity she’s heard out of him in days now.

“My grandmother,” she replies, a fond smile curving her lips. “It may sound strange, but every other generation or so, we seem to produce someone with the ability to _see_ the cards. It’s a skill that has been passed down for generations, and she was one of the best. In her lifetime, in her hands, the cards never lied.”

She senses more than sees him stare over at her from over the top of his cup. “Have they ever lied for you?”

Her shoulders move up and down in a gentle, graceful motion. “Depends on how you view the interpretation, I suppose. A reading is only so good as the reader, and I learned everything she knew.” She scoops the cards, folds them back into a deck and settles them face down before him. “Colin trusted me.”

He eyes them with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, and she chuckles softly when he lifts the top one and then the next to peek. “They don’t bite, _sealgaire_ ,” she promises with a smile.

The smile at his lips is a bit sheepish as he takes the rest of the deck into his hands. “What do I do?”

Saoirse clears a space on the table. “Shuffle them. Relax and focus on the cards. When you are satisfied with the deck, set the deck face down on the table and I will explain the next step.”

The skepticism does not fade, but he continues as she directs. He stares off at the wall once more, but this time she suspects he is considering his question; what should he ask, how should he ask it? _This_ is a look she recognizes. In surprisingly short time, his fingers move, manipulating the cards. For several minutes, the only sound in the room is the repetitive, soft fffttttttpppppttttt as the cards slither and slap against one another. Silence returns, broken only as he slaps the deck onto the space between them. There is a hint of defiance in the movement, a challenge that matches the look in his eyes. 

_It is time._

“I will do for you what I do for C –.” Her voice catches, the thought goes incomplete and she shakes her head once to rid herself of the negativity that is associated with it. “What I do for the others who ask.”

One of his brows lifts a fraction. “Who?”

“Glennon, Declan, occasionally Ruairí,” she clarifies. “Others no longer with us.” His gaze is focused solely on the cards, no reaction at all. Briefly, she wonders if it is a cause for concern, but she lets it pass without comment. Normally, she is the one to manipulate the cards, but she needs to prove something to him this first time. “I will ask you to lay several cards out for me to read,” she explains. “Lay them exactly as I tell you.” 

He nods, and she directs him. The layout is simple: three cards face down next to one another – the first to the left, the second in the center, the last to the right. “Most of the time I like a three card spread.” Pointing to each card, she identifies them, “Past. Present. Future.” She takes several minutes to describe the differences between the card suits and what they represent. “With me so far?”

Caleb nods. “I think so.”

She taps the table above the _Past_ card, carefully avoiding touching the card itself. “Flip this over, left to right, so it faces up.”

Caleb does and reveals the nine of hearts. Saoirse smiles. “This is your past, Caleb. The nine of hearts represents wishes coming true. It is your youth, when you, Ned and Nan found one another.” She meets his gaze, her smile widens. “You found your family with them, and later with the _Reds_.” 

His expression, neutral before the began, does not change, but she see one of his fingers twitch next to the second card. She nods. “Flip it the same way.”

He does. This time, the two of spades appears. “Hmm.” She tilts her head to the side as she considers. “Separation. Deceit. Tough changes,” she murmurs almost absently while tapping her forefinger against her chin. After another moment, she nods. “I think, considering this is in your ‘present,’ it is safe to say this reflects your life in and among the _Reds_ , especially of late.”

A dry, humorless laugh escapes his lips, but he says nothing else.

“Alright, flip the last one – same way as the others.” He does so with a sharp flick of his wrist; the resultant snap as the card hits the surface echoes around them briefly. But it is the card itself that captures her attention, and she cannot decide if she is relieved or horrified by it. “The four of clubs. Lies, betrayal, changes for the worse.” Her face pinches into a frown. “Clubs usually represent money and finances, but I’m not so certain …” She hesitates, uncertainty rippling through her. “Flip the next card off the deck for me and lay it just below the center card, please.”

Caleb does as she instructs. “What’s this?”

Her lips work a little as she eyes it – the _Joker_ – and considers how best to respond. “Sometimes, if the reading is too vague or I need a bit more guidance on any of the cards, I will flip a fourth to provide clarification.”

Caleb’s eyes are drawn to the Joker logo and one brow arches. “And _this_ is clarification?”

“Actually, it is,” she assures him. “The Joker is a sign of changes to come. New beginnings, a fresh start. It doesn’t set aside any risk involved, but that’s the general interpretation of it.” Reaching over, she lifts it and places it over his future card, crossing them. “In this case, it suggests that you will move past the troubles we’ve been having and on to something new.”

“Me or the _Reds_?”

She shrugs. “More specifically, you. That doesn’t mean the _Reds_ won’t be involved, but it’s impossible to do a reading for the group as a whole.”

He sits quietly for a moment and tilts his head in thought. “How often do you do this?”

“As often as asked.” She gestures at the cards. “May I?” When he nods, she scoops the cards up with the rest of the deck and shuffles them again. After a couple of minutes, she starts to lay the cards out once more, this time in a larger, more complicated fashion until it vaguely resembles a Celtic Cross. When she finishes, far more of the deck is spread before her. She spends a few minutes flipping cards in silence with her right hand while holding the rest of the deck in her left and tapping her chin with it. Only twice does she pull another card from the deck. Nearly ten minutes later, she scoops them all back together, shuffles them once more and carefully sets them on the table between them. “The cards have spoken,” she says quietly. “They are to go with you.”

Clearly startled, Caleb’s eyes widen as he sits back in his seat. “What?”

Smiling gently, she taps the top of the deck with a finger before nudging them closer to him. “I will teach you how to read them,” she says, “but the cards tell me you are their owner, their reader.” When still he hesitates, her smile softens. “You are drawn to them, are you not?”

He nods cautiously.

“And you cannot deny you have been looking for outside guidance these past few years.”

His brow pinches into a frown. “But … this?”

Folding her hands beneath her chin, she murmurs, “Did you know I once read for Ned?”

Caleb breathes in sharply and the frown fades to shock.

She nods once, the smile still in place. “Aye, I did. It was the day you first helped the _Reds_.” She sighs. “As I recall, he, _Ceannaire, Dara_ and _Ceannaisi_ all sat in on that reading.” Her lips twitch at the recollection. “It didn’t stop Colin from worrying, however.”

Cautiously, Caleb takes the deck, eyeing them closely for a long minute before tucking them into his coat pocket. “And what about you?” he asks. 

She reaches for her scone and takes a bite. “I have one other deck,” she assures him. When still he looks wary, she reaches over and pats his hand. “It’s fine, Caleb. You have a need of guidance, here is how you can find it. Whatever else may happen, _this_ is meant for you. That much I know.”


	9. Scath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scath = Shadow
> 
> Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam = May she rest in peace.

_2172_

A soft squeak and the scrabble of scampering feet scurrying to safety echo hollowly throughout the darkened basement room, and though Aoife looks in that direction, she doesn’t see it. With no light to speak of, she uses the shadows to her advantage; the wall keeps her upright though her shoulders slump in exhaustion and fatigue. Quietly, she finishes the last of the meager meal. Her gaze may be pointed in that direction, but they are unseeing; her thoughts adrift, floating without purpose or intent … until they land upon him. Only then do they return to the one topic that neither of them can ignore any longer. 

“ _Sealgaire_ , you should go.” Her voice is a barely audible whisper, softer than the trickling water as the rain leaks in through the crack in the lone window, but he hears. Of that, she has no doubt. She wastes no energy turning to look at him, and a part of her speaks in an effort to break the oppressive silence. Still, she has just cause for her arguments, and she isn’t afraid to bring it up. Again. “Leave Shannon. Find yourself a life, make something of yourself.”

The soft rustle of fabric, the slightest clack as he sets his weapon aside; he turns to face her. She shifts her head to look over at him. The room grows darker with each passing minute, and the sharp planes of his jaw and cheek are nothing but soft smudges surrounded by grey. They bunker down here for a reason, find safety in a time when little is offered. “Not again, _sc_ _á_ _th._ ” It’s an order, though there is weariness in his tone. 

Aoife’s lips curve at the corners. Waif-like features framed by a mass of blonde curls, these days she looks far older than her tender age suggests. Maturity captured her early, but with it came insight, and for that she knows he listens even if he won’t fully accept. This particular topic has led them ‘round and ‘round for days, and with each that passes the urgency to make him _see_ grows. His stubbornness is well known, but until he agrees with her, she will not stop. “Someone has to live,” she insists. “Someone has to tell our story or the _Reds_ will die.”

He growls menacingly in the back of his throat; _Sc_ _á_ _th_ , however, is not worried. The reaction is not aimed at her, but at their situation. “Our story will be told by _all_ of us!”

As a whole, the _Reds_ are nearly extinct. Barely a half-dozen left to carry on the name, but all are agreed; defeat is not an option. The net the _Greystones_ draw around them grows ever tighter, the chances for breaking free ever smaller. They have little time left. _That_ is what worries her. Of them all, _he_ is best equipped to break free, to get away, to find a new, better life. If he will but listen. But he doesn’t or he won’t, she isn’t certain which, and it weighs heavily upon her. He is meant for greater things. She knows this, deep inside, but he will not listen. 

“ _Sealgaire_?”

A soft grunt is the only reply.

Beyond the window, muted due to the rain and wind, an unexpected clatter rattles across the evening. _Sc_ _á_ _th’s_ breath hitches and her hand moves instinctively for her weapon. A quick glance at _Sealgaire_ assures her he heard it too; his eyes shine with bright intensity through the dimness, his focus outside. One hand on his weapon, the other holds her back, and they wait. Two minutes pass. Five. Another clatter, followed by harsh whispers.

Aoife looks over at him, sees him nod, and pushes to her feet as quietly as she can, following him out the door into the unknown …

~

“ _Sealgaire_ …”

The world around him is silent save for the pounding thump of his heart as Caleb’s hands work quickly to find the wound, but her hoarse whisper somehow breaks through. He chances a glance at her face, her pale features stark in the darkness of the alley. She is bleeding out before he can find the injury and stem its flow, or at the very least stabilize her so he can get help. “Hush, _sc_ _á_ _th_ , you’ll be fine in a minute,” he murmurs in reassurance; he isn’t sure if his words are meant for him or for her.

Her hand, slight and trembling, streaked red from her own blood, wraps around his wrist. She tugs, but there is little if any actual strength behind it. Caleb pulls his lip between his teeth and bites down hard to keep from shouting at the unfairness of it all. On a good day, she’s a lightweight; barely five foot four and a hundred pounds soaked through by a torrential downpour. But aside from her tech expertise, her skill with a weapon nearly matches his own; she has always been a perfect fit for the _conairt_. 

“ _Sealgaire …_ ”

He shakes his head angrily, a growl building in the back of his throat, as if denial will change the outcome. 

“ _Sealgaaaa…_ ”

The whisper fades, the wind tearing it from her with her last breath, losing it in the ether. Beneath his hands, she goes unnaturally still just as he finds the wound beneath her left breast. “No,” he chokes, hands shifting up to frame her face. Her eyes stare upward, empty, unfocused, lifeless. His breath catches as he pulls back; two hand sized prints of red remain. “ _Sc_ _á_ _th!_ ” One last check, he lowers his head over her lips, but no sign of breath escapes. 

Heart lurching painfully in his chest, he tilts his head to the skies above, ignoring the near constant storm. “Noooooooo!”

He drops his head, stares at his hands. The red thins out, silvery streaks creeping over, around, through the blood until only his skin shows beneath. Tears intermingle with the rain falling over him. And, in the distance, a shout.

Leaning over her, he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “ _Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam._ ”

Booted steps thunder closer even as he pushes himself to his feet, grabs his weapon and runs …

~

_“You should go, sealgaire …”_

Her voice continues to haunt him, even after death. A part of him truly believes she is this persistent; that she will pester him with her concerns until he listens. Her concern is as touching to him in death as it was in life. However, he is a _Red_ and he knows his duty. While her words might be taking root, he cannot leave. Not yet.

Territorial boundaries between the gangs are hazy lines on a vague map at best these days, but one thing is very clear to Caleb; the _Greystones_ are making a final press. The taste of victory is near, and they scrabble at it like a pack of wolves devouring their prey for every last morsel. 

Cautiously, relying on the shadows from which _Sc_ _á_ _th_ took her name to help protect him, he ventures as close as he dares in the direction of _Ceannaire’s_ home. It is the _Reds_ last foothold in what once was a large, broad swath of territory including Shannon and its environs. As last stands go, it will have to do for they have nowhere else to go.

There is a comfort in weaving his way through the familiar maze of streets and alleyways, yet each step he takes is calculated, planned. He will not give up, under any circumstances. Unfortunately, this adds time to what normally is a short trip. By the time he is within eyesight of the building, it’s too late. 

He takes cover behind a stack of abandoned shipping crates as he hears voices ring through the air, barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder. The words are nearly impossible to understand from this distance, but the authority behind them is not. Caleb’s chest tightens and his breath catches. He peers around the stack, searching. The rain buckets down, visibility is difficult; he lifts his weapon, reliant upon the scope to provide clarity. It comes at a cost. 

Standing in the middle of 10th Street, grouped together and surrounded by a dozen or so unfamiliar faces, stands _Ceannaire._ _Dara_ , Saoirse and Moira plus two other madrai he cannot see stand with her. The weapon falls loose in his hand; he doesn’t need to see their faces to recognize surrender, their body language says it all. Slumped shoulders, dropped heads. Crouching back behind the crates, Caleb struggles to breathe. Everything about it screams _defeat_ in a way that he finds repelling; yet what other choice is there? If the _Greystones_ made it this far, what other answer can there be?

_“You should go, sealgaire …”_

Caleb presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Aoife’s words still haunt; he and he alone is the only one left of the _Reds_ who might be able to flee. 

A shout fills the air, followed by a curse. Caleb freezes, curls into as small a target as he can and holds his breath. Footsteps fill the air around him, running as if searching. Caleb swallows. There is no doubt in his mind he is their target; he’s taken as many of them down as they have _Reds_ over the years. Time is no longer on his side.

He looks around, evaluates his surroundings. He can get nowhere before he will come into view. Inhaling deeply, he holds his breath and quietly counts in his head. He is nearly as good at hiding in the shadows as _sc_ _á_ _th_ herself, and maybe, just maybe, with the storm overhead, he might have an advantage. Thunder rumbles overhead, seemingly in acknowledgement of his assessment. _Thirty-five … forty … forty-five …_ As the thunder recedes, so do the footsteps, moving to the northeast of his position. Ever so slowly, Caleb releases his breath then takes another takes in another. Three more times, until he is certain he can breathe freely. 

Lifting his rifle, he uses the scope one last time. Three figures stand near _Ceannaire_ , one of whom towers over her, his hand in the air motioning threateningly. Caleb does not miss the flare of anger rising in her; even through a scope, the rain, across the distance. Some of the ache inside him lessens. They may be defeated, but that doesn’t mean the _Greystones_ have won. A meaty fist rises, emerald defiance blooms … and suddenly, Caleb knows what must happen.

“ _Someone has to live. Someone needs to know our story_.”

He lowers his weapon and turns, retreating down the alleyway and disappearing into the shadows. There is a place he can go, someone who can help to get him away, but it now lies in enemy territory. It is the _only_ place left in a world turned upside down …


	10. Sealgaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sealgaire = hunter

_2172_

“You must come with me now!”

The whisper of words, barely audible, pull Caleb to his feet in less than a heartbeat, eyes shooting open to full alertness. He scoops up his bag and weapon up in the same movement and follows after _Athair_. “Where?” he asks, his voice steady and clear. Only the slightest stumble of his feet hints at his previous unconscious state.

As _Athair_ leads the way, he glances over and raises a finger to his lips. The message is received and there is no doubt, no hesitation in Caleb as he responds with a nod, his lips thinning into a straight line; this man has saved his life more than once. His trust in him is absolute.

The halls of St. Senan’s are dark, but _Athair_ knows the way. They make their way to the staircase leading to the basement and descend. It is here the priest puts a hand on Caleb’s shoulder to gently guide him. Silence still reigns, but it is a welcome thing; only little sounds, the scrabble of mice, the soft chirrups of crickets. Caleb has been here many times over the years, and he thinks he knows where they are … until the unexpected whispering glide of what might be a shifting wall panel tickles his ears.

“Watch your step,” _Athair_ whispers. 

It is the only warning Caleb receives, but the hand, at least, remains. Instinct slows his steps, placing each slowly and with more caution, but the priest waits patiently. Almost immediately, it becomes clear that the ground here is sure, solid, but dangerously steep. Several paces in, _Athair_ moves ahead of him, leaving Caleb to throw his arm out, desperate for the guidance once more. Within moments, it is his hand on the priest’s shoulder, and they continue forward in single file. Twice he stumbles, but it’s almost as if the priest expects this, bracing his arms against the wall with unexpected speed in an effort to block Caleb’s tumble. 

The descent seems to take an eternity, but eventually the ground levels out again. The passage, however, remains wide enough only for one person. On they continue, for how long Caleb isn’t certain but he guesses is about an hour or so, until finally the path slopes upward. 

When _Athair_ slows, Caleb has no choice but to do the same. He sees nothing, but between movement and sound, it’s easy to discern the priest is working on opening a door of some kind. Within a few minutes, that proves to be the case as it is thrown wide. Above, heavily clouded skies block most of the moon and stars, but some light peeks through, certainly enough to see by. “Come,” _Athair_ murmurs, stepping out of the tunnel and into the fresh air.

Caleb follows, if a bit hesitantly at first. His senses are on high alert, seeking, searching, cataloging sounds, smells and sights. It takes several minutes, but he finally determines there is no immediate threat. He lifts his gaze to the skies above and notes the light of a quarter moon accompanied by a handful of stars. The clouds are dark and threaten a storm as they move east, leaving the rest of the landscape dark and silent. With extreme caution marking his every step, he moves deeper into the night …

Less than fifteen feet from him, _Athair_ stands facing a slightly raised platform before what appears to have been a large window, his head bowed deep in prayer. Recognition comes to him in silence in that moment, as Caleb notices several things, not the least of which is the priest has aged quite a bit in the years since their initial meeting. Hair once thick and dark like his own has retreated for streaks of grey that reflect the moonlight. In normal times, a peaceful, calming presence surrounds the older man, but Caleb senses strained tension … no, something else, something far more pronounced than that, though he cannot put it into words.

_Athair_ ’s head rises as he makes the sign of the cross. “St. Senan and all the saints, preserve us.”

Caleb darts a final quick look around to assure himself it is safe to speak. “What is this place?”

A smile eases across the man’s lips. “My secret,” he announces. With a gesture to their left, he leads Caleb further into the ruins. 

Everything about this place is old, Caleb notices. From the haphazard piles of ancient stones that once formed buildings, to the spattering of grave markers, to the somewhat habitable yet still seemingly ancient structure they enter together. “It isn’t much, but you will be safe here until tomorrow.”

That announcement startles Caleb. “Tomorrow?”

“Aye.” _Athair_ flashes another smile at Caleb, apparently content to keep it a secret. “You’ll see, lad,” he promises. “But, for now, you should rest while you can.”

The room isn’t huge, but it’s surprisingly well maintained given the condition of the exterior of the building. There are a few crates to one side and a couple of old, worn military issue cots that line two of the walls. With slow steps, his eyes search every nook and cranny of the space as Caleb asks, “Where _are_ we?”

_Athair_ chuckles. “We are still under the protective watch of St. Senan, never fear, lad,” the priest replies. “No one, not even the _Greystones_ , know of this place.” He walks over to one of the crates, fishes out some food and drink and joins Caleb. “Saints Island,” he concludes as he hands it over. “To anyone who looks this direction, whether it be from land or above, all they’ll see are forests and ruins.”

_Saints Island_. Caleb accepts the food and drink as he sits on one of the cots, but he cannot hide the surprise in his eyes. The name is far too familiar. “I … I thought this place was forbidden?”

_Athair’s_ grins. “It is! I’m glad some of my lessons stuck with you over time!” He seats himself on the other cot nearby. “Centuries ago, it was the site of a very small monastery,” he explains, temporarily falling into his teacher mode. “It was gifted to St. Senan’s in the past hundred years on the promise it be preserved. The island is far too small and of too little interest to become a tourist attraction, so we have kept it safe instead.”

Skeptical, Caleb asks, “Have you brought any other _Reds_ here?”

The priest shakes his head. “No, son,” he replies in a more solemn tone, “you are the first.”

Caleb’s shoulders slump slightly. The food has no taste and his mouth is dry as he stares down at his hands. “And the last.”

“Perhaps.” The priest rises and walks back over to Caleb where he crouches down and pats his shoulder. “You cannot worry about them now. There is nothing you can do for –.”

Caleb jumps to his feet, anger surging uncontrollably as he knocks the priest backwards. It only takes a few of his long-legged strides to reach the opposite wall where he slams his fist against the stone wall, knuckles first and heedless of slicing pain that shoots up his arm while at the same time, an unending roar of anguish that has nothing to do with his hand is ripped from the center of his chest. 

For half a breath, as his cry rolls and reverberates throughout the room, as the skies outside seemingly echo his pain with a sudden explosion of light followed practically immediately by rolling thunder, the world comes to a halt and everything is still. Save for his heaving lungs, searching for more air to fuel another such outburst, all is quiet …

He turns on his heels, facing the priest, his eyes wild and seething. “The only way there is nothing _I_ can do is if _I_ am dead!” he bellows defiantly.

_Athair_ stands and folds his arms across his chest as if waiting patiently for a storm to blow itself out. It is maddening, but not unexpected. And yet, Caleb knows from experience, this priest is a man of complexities; this is not the reaction he expects. Not this time. Not this situation. Eyes narrowed, _Athair_ asks flatly, “Are you quite finished?”

Like kindling meeting flame, Caleb erupts again. Before he knows it, and without conscious thought, his arm swings in the direction of _Athair_ , and there is nothing he can do to stop himself. There is a half second where, in the back of Caleb’s mind, he considers the repercussions of this action, the cost of attacking the one man in all the world who might be able to help him, but it is fleeting. In the next moment, the older man throws himself away from the fist while reaching to grasp Caleb’s arm, and somehow manages to twist in such a way that he pulls it up behind the teen, pressing it against his spine as he wraps his arms around and holds him close, immobile. “Let it _go,_ son, now,” he breathes near Caleb’s ear, his voice a mixture of authority and pleading, “let it go before it eats you _alive_!”

Caleb chokes for air, horrified and stunned by the turn of events in the last few seconds. _What have I done?_ Beneath him, his legs weaken and he crumples to the floor, sobs wracking his thin frame. _Athair_ follows, his arms loosening but he does not release Caleb completely until the younger man’s body goes completely limp, all the while murmuring half formed prayers and words of comfort. 

The words seem distant to Caleb; not meant for him. _Why should they be?_

It’s impossible to track the time that passes until he is calm again. The storm inside him still rages, though more muted, running apace with the one out of doors. Still, the blinding flame of anger retreats, and with it a healthy portion of the despair. Caleb pushes himself to his feet and wanders across the room to the window where he stares pensively out at the storm. “If I let it go,” he rasps, “I have no purpose.”

_Athair_ follows him but stands off to the opposite end of the glass. “You have your _life_ ,” he insists. “It’s all they want for you.”

Caleb sniffs back a snort of disbelief. “Why _me_?” he demands. “Why not them?”

The priest shrugs. “You are the one with opportunity.”

_Opportunity_. Caleb frowns. “What ‘opportunity’ is it you think I have?” he counters. “Alone, penniless, on the run from the _Greystones_?”

Again, the priest’s reaction is not what Caleb expects as his lips curve upward slightly at the corners. “Now, _that_ is a story,” he replies. “If you are willing to listen, that is.”

The rain draws Caleb’s attention once more as he gives the request consideration. “The world is falling down around me. I have nothing but time.” As answers go, it is far from complete, but it seems to satisfy the older man.

The soft rustle of fabric moving pulls Caleb’s attention back and he sees _Athair_ reach into a pocket. When he pulls it out again, all Caleb can see is a metallic chain dangling from his hand until the palm opens. Lying flat against the skin, he finds two thin oblong discs that appear to be made of the same metal as the chain. On one side is a logo; a field of dark navy blue containing two white panels arched to meet at the top in the center and three stars in the space beneath. The design isn’t unfamiliar to Caleb; he’s seen it before, usually on recruitment posters scattered around Shannon, or on the uniforms of soldiers who happened to visit, but he’s never paid it much mind. 

“Go on,” _Athair_ urges, “take them.”

Caleb does, turning the pieces over find a name, a rank, a serial number, a birth date, a blood type, a religious affiliation. _Name: O’Bannon, Connor Rank: Corporal …_ Stunned, Caleb looks over at him. “You … you were in the Systems Alliance?”

“When I was young and thought I could make a difference,” _Athair_ replies with a rueful chuckle. “I served for a few years, and when I came up for reenlistment, I opted out.” He sighs, but his smile widens a bit more. It is not the smile of a man who regrets the decision. “I found a different calling, one much more suited to me and achieves the same goal.”

Caleb’s gaze returns to the tags in his hand and he stares for a long minute. “Is this your way of telling me – ?”

_Athair_ retrieves the tags and pockets them again. “As I said, an opportunity awaits, if you are interested. Room, board, three meals a day ….”

Caleb inhales deeply, his eyes closing. “In return for?”

“Duty,” the priest replies, “and be warned, that’s nothing like what you gave to the _Reds_. You have skills, son. Raw talent. And you are loyal, I’ll grant you that. The Alliance can help hone that, provide you with a home, a future, a family of sorts, on a far grander scale than the _Reds_ ever could.”

Caleb’s eyes open again and meet the priest’s. “Only to have that family yanked out from beneath me, yet again?”

_Athair_ reaches a hand out to rest on Caleb’s shoulder. “The likelihood of that happening is slim to none, as you well know,” he replies. “What was it you said Aoife told you? To get as far away as you can? To live?”

A small pixie-like face with bright blue eyes and framed by a curly mop of blonde hair comes to mind. _You should go, sealgaire … Leave Shannon. Find yourself a life, make something of yourself._ Her voice echoes in his mind, reminding him of her sincerity and kindness, her genuine concern. 

“My place is here,” he mumbles, stubborn to a fault. “Shannon is my home, the _Reds_ my family.”

The priest sighs softly, but nods as well. “The _Reds_ are no more,” he reminds him, “and you know as well as I that they will hunt you down if they hear you remain.”

A growl burns at the back of Caleb’s throat. “Let them!” he hisses. “I will make them pay for their crimes!”

“Alone?” _Athair_ challenges, one brow arching. “Without support? That’s – .”

“Dedication.”

“Suicide,” he finishes, eyes narrowing on Caleb. “And you know my thoughts on that.”

Anger and frustration, still glowing embers deep inside, start to kindle once more. “It is my _right_!” Caleb jerks his shoulder free of the priest’s grasp …

… only to see the man move far more quickly than he has ever witnessed before as he grasps Caleb’s left wrist in his hand. “If you must continue your fight, do so in a manner where you have the chance to come out on the other side!” He releases his hold a moment later, hands dropping to his side. “I was only a soldier for a few years, but even I saw the benefits of having a squad, a team at my back!”

Unbidden and, in some ways, unwelcome, another visage comes to the forefront of Caleb’s memories. _I hope you know what you’ve signed on for, lad. It won’t always be this simple._ Colin, the commander, the older brother, one who believed in him. 

Caleb turns away, stares out the window again. The rain is starting to ease, the clouds parting and moving on eastward. “I … I have a promise to keep,” he says as he watches the moon peek through once more. 

“The nice thing about promises,” _Athair_ murmurs, “is that they can go with you.”

_Go with you._ Caleb bites back a groan. Saoirse, his fierce and loyal friend and confidante, comes to mind. _The cards have spoken. They are to go with you._

It seems his ghosts, those of present and past, aim to dog his heels, to reinforce what _Athair_ suggests. Still, Caleb isn’t certain. He has loose ends here he needs to tie up, if only for his own peace of mind so that Ned might rest easy.

_When you are old enough, if you wish to do your own hunting, resolve your own grievances, or help us do ours, you come to me first…_

He swallows as _Ceannaire_ ’s face slips past his defenses. He remembers her that first night they met, when he was a child, and yet he clearly recalls her face less than a day before, defiant yet subjugated in defeat. His list of grievances today is far longer than it was twelve years ago, but to whom does he turn to see them resolved?

Pushing away from the window, Caleb retreats to the cot he claimed and takes a quick seat on the floor. From his pack, he pulls a small bundle wrapped in colorful cloth. Over the next few minutes, he centers himself, clears his mind, and focuses on one question. The cards move easily in his hand; Saoirse was right in her assessment, they do well with him. He ignores the watchful eyes of the priest and lays out a simple three card spread on the ground before him.

_The Past – the five of spades._ Caleb’s brow creases as he considers what Saoirse taught him. _Interference in a happy home, reversal of fortune … but one that will be resolved._ A soft snort of disgust escapes his lips, but he can’t argue that it matches with what’s happened of late. ‘Interference’ might be a polite way of looking at it, but it all amounts to the same thing. 

_The Present – the King of hearts._ One corner of Caleb’s lips turns upwards. _An openhearted man who gives good advice._ He lifts his gaze to look over at _Athair_ who still stands at the window, now pointedly averting his gaze. The other corner of Caleb’s lips turns upward. No doubt who that card refers to.

_The Future – the ten of diamonds._ Caleb blinks. _Money, travel, good luck … all positive changes._ In context with his question – should he follow the priest’s suggestion – it leaves him with no doubts; his decision is clear.

Carefully, he gathers the cards together and returns them to the cloth. Once assured they are bundled well and tucked back safely in his bag, he rises and returns to the window. “How?” he asks simply. When the priest turns to look over at him, Caleb sees surprise, but also a hint of a smile. “It isn’t like I can walk down the street to the nearest recruitment station.”

The smile widens easily. “That won’t be necessary. I brought you out here for a reason other than safety.” He points towards the south, away from the mainland. “There is an open field near the edge of the river, one large enough for our purposes anyway. In the morning, I will introduce you to an old friend who has promised to help …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This chapter brings to a close Caleb Shepard's days with the 10th Street Reds ... or does it? Keep an eye out for there is still more to the story, and certainly more to HIS story to come!


End file.
